In Another Life...(song)

words and music: Larry Nicholson


What kind of Indian am I? -
One who won’t take advice?
The old one says that I should forget you
How could I forget those eyes?

You came out of the glowing sea spray
Saw you standing on the beach
You were born a carver’s daughter
You are close but so out of reach

Now you’ve taken up with another
Gone and gave your heart away
The hardest thing to do is watch you drift on by
So I’ll meet you another life…

I’m in love with the land that made me
Watch you in your graceful flight
Look for you down a road less traveled -
in some far off gentle night

Well we become the choices we’ve made?
Fall asleep inside our heads
Will we move on without a sound?
Don’t want to die before I’m dead

I can’t stay with any other
Can’t give half my heart away
It’s the hardest thing to stay and feel your wind blowing by
So I’ll try again in another life…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Dark Horse (song)

words and music: larry nicholson


how is it you recognized me?…called to me in my sleep
cradled me in your in loving arms…gave me your word to keep
you’re a dark horse mystery…a way of looking i’ve never seen
you to me are undiscovered country…somewhere i’ve never been

before you a battle outside ragin’
inside each day a little death
you comfort me with the fresh wind of your voice
i’ll comfort you with the last wind in my breath

you brushed back for me all my defenses…came to me where i live
made real to me the dream i had…when i had nothing to give
this music plays in the deepest way…i’m learning to find the key
seeing things i never could before…walk through what could never be

i’ll come for you when you get so lonely
when the fire’s gone we will find the spark
you will be my sacred one and only
standing in the caverns of the dark

what was it that sent you to me?…some creation must have made this place
dance upon this grand design…reach for you in moments of grace
drink from this loving cup…the taste of you on my tongue
i may always be just a little fragile…you’ll always be the one

can i hold you under these stars so plenty
when cold winds runs through you like a knife
i love you like a night with no ending
you are the first and last thing in my life

now i’ve been a lesson in hard living
i’ve been a cautionary tale
but if you still got a little left for giving
we’ll get on board and find wind for these sails…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Twilight Life (song)...

words and music by larry nicholson


a black-haired woman walks down to the edge of dark water
a clutch roses in her arms for the all the lost tribes with homes on the sea
ghostly waves beat the shore
like spectral ones come before
taking solace in storms and the things that will be

a thousand kisses won’t mend the bend in your heart
nothing in this world you’ve seen makes you come to grips with your fate
play the undertaker’s blues
get confused by the rules
you want no piece of the illusion that they call hate

chorus 1
when you stand high on the piny ridge of that beautiful mountain
and look across the expanse of the beautiful sea
your heart beats so fast
there’s no future no past
there’s no feeling alone in your twilight life…

chorus 2
when you rise up to a silver moon where you wait for no one
find that place with your love where you reach for the sky
there’s no secrets to keep
living forever deep
all there is is the quiet of your twilight life…

the orphan girl diving down in the urban jungle
a nameless child walks the streets named for sons of the city long since dead
wears a coat full of holes
stepping over lost souls
and never understood anything that they’ve said

all roads lead us home to that same mystic garden
where fires burn and the smoke bathes our bodies in ashes and in coal
no one comes back alive
the wind cuts like a knife
there’s no need for explaining in this twilight life…



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Ballad Of A Brown Town Crier (song)

words and music: larry nicholson


looking back on warmer sunny days
i can’t go back there anyways
we were young and wild, we had it all
did you ever think you might fall?
in the heat of the night vows were made
but as time goes by promises fade

the only thing I know
it’s time for letting go…
cause time won’t wait for me

your spirit stays with me everywhere
ten years from now will we still care?
will you ever turn and think of me?
wonderin’ where i might be…
in city rain i think i hear you laugh
as you come across an old photograph

there's no sense hangin’ on
when love goes it’s gone…
and no one is to blame

some people think they’ll stop the rain
hate the whole world when they fall again (and again and again)…
keeping track of all our mistakes
they only know how a heart breaks
gettin’ old before their time
carry it with them on down the line

it’s getting late September
there so much to remember…
and so much to let go

i love her still like i love the stars
i keep her close no matter how far (away she is)
its good to hope its good to need
but i’ll keep it there i won’t bleed
if she ever finds herself this way
i won’t think twice `bout what’ll say

she’s somewhere out there tonight
i’ll send her a little light...
i’ll sing for her this song



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Dismantling A Mystery (or How Come It Doesn’t Rhyme?)...

the poem:



Seeing You For The First Time…

is like remembering
that with Indians, it is all one:
Velvet rain falling over lush Peace Hills back home -
Old man stone glowing in fire
at Beetle Omeasoo’s sweatlodge at Ermineskin -
Hundreds of black wings beating in the great nation that is the sky
each night high above Coastal Salish ground -
Or…your gentle voice heard in woods at Qu’appelle




photo of larry by j-ro
editing a friend's poetry manuscript and helping another with their work it occurred to me that this poem might shed some light on MY theory and process (in particular), it is simply the way i see and do it...proceed at your own interest...

poetry is NOT for everybuddy...one of my favorite crushes, one of the ten most beautiful people in the world informed me she wouldn't even finish reading one of my poems that she came across...this is not to focus on her (i mean it’s clear she loves my body…but i want her to love my mind - i’m an artist after all) but to indicate how adamant people can be or how adverse to verse some people are...but why should this be? - many theories out there but i tend to think the reasons are mainly these:

a) people tend to think of poetry ONLY as that Shakespearean sonnet they made you memorize while holding a gun to your head back in high school...it was traumatic, you know it was AND you never did figure out what the hell was meant before and after the words: tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow...

b) the only poetry you've read since high school was by that ditzy, hippy-chick or the whacked out dude so spaced on the chronic that you thought everything they said was poetry (cause you were a little whack-y AND ditzy yerself back then)...until much later you realized they were committing to paper every pointless, free associative, incoherent pile of syllabic word-turds you ever read but it also occurs to you much later how badly you wanted to get in their pants or how bad they wanted in yours, so much so that even the words "fuck off and die!" seemed to resonate with insight (at last - someone really gets me!), seemed razor-sharp with clarity of purpose and breadth of vision and…romance, even (whoah...think i love him/her).

So people have either read the most difficult and challenging poetry in the English language (the dreaded Elizabethan iambic pentameter) OR the shit that literally means nothing…at any rate had you the chance to read a cross selection of contemporary poetry (that is, poetry written in your time, which typically is free-verse or not in a specific structure on the page) there isn't a doubt in my mind that you would eventually find work by someone that does in fact speak to you, resonates with you and has you come to appreciate what can often be the profound power and beauty of language (more about this topic in future posts)...

for now, it would appear that i must be changing, growing or getting weak in the head because i'm doing something i NEVER do...which is – ANALYZE A POEM...of my own... this one called: Seeing You For The First Time...(located at the top of this post)

using the first line as the title is a device that goes back centuries...couldn't possibly remember where I first saw it, though i know Shakespeare did do this often with his numbered sonnets as did ee cummings, bill bissett, al purdy and many, many other poem-makers have also done this through the ages and i rather like to do this at times when the opening line results in a sense of intrigue or contemplation in the reader...i try to find (use/write) something specific but also it is working if there’s a chance the reader believes they could actually contribute the next line...admittedly, though, writing this first section of explanation reminds me that the first line of THIS particular poem became the title only AFTER most of the rest had been composed...so, the use of this device didn't become apparent to me to until later in the process but it's an example of what i call a happy accident...this might seem to imply that ALL or ANY poem or poetry could simply use as it's title the first line of the poem but this is not the case…

back to the poem…I’ll come clean, now…this one was inspired by (surprise, surprise)…a girl!...i had the opening line (which became the title)…then, very simply…I compared that meeting to 4 different and beautiful things:

1. rainfall
2. rocks in a fire
3. birds flying
4. the woman’s voice

...and that’s all there was to it...more or less...

seeing her for the first time WAS beautiful…the title/first line would be a cliché if the rest of the poem used typical language or imagery…it would not work if I simply said:

…seeing you is like rainfall, rocks in a fire, bird’s flying and your voice…


we learned in early grade school what the words “like” or “as” do to a sentence…it takes a phrase from being understood literally and then makes it a figure of speech (a metaphor)…so, seeing her wasn’t actually or in fact (literally) all those things, it was LIKE all those things, this idea goes a long, long way in language…if you say: seeing you IS nice…seeing you is good - these sentiments may be true but they are bland, mundane and hearing them a thousand times will mean much less the thousandth time you hear it…and haven’t we heard “nice” or “happy” used thousands of times by the time we become adults?...nice and good are for babies and puppies…

the craft of writing involves your choice of words and arrangement of them, the specifics that will spur the imagination of the reader - it's in the details...this is where it can be way, way overdone or one uses descriptions heard a million times (but you know what? people love that...ask Hallmark), OR the poem can become something fresh, not said in quite the same way before, evocative of so much OR it may simply sound lyrical to the point where speech and music seem to meld...ALL these things are possible at this stage if you care enough (or if you care little about what you make) - - in this poem, alongside the 4 items, i have also included four specific Indian PLACES; peace hills, ermineskin, coast salish ground and qu’appelle…NOT ALL readers will be aware of all the references but I’m betting the good reader will make those connections without having heard of one or all of the geographical places referred to in the piece…

i confess, i can’t say precisely what: with indians it is all one, means, but i don't need to…i did want to convey the idea that…indians…know…what do they know?...this question in my mind propels the poem, elevates it, transports the reader’s mind, implies so much, opens the piece so that any reader of any background will intuitively define this phrase for themselves…this, in my mind is where god came in, the synaptic exchange, the happy accident, where the rubber met the road, where the exposition became art…

It then occurred to me that indians are only here today BECAUSE WE REMEMBER, we exist the way we do because of the way we keep our histories’ alive…with our voices, through orality, through externalizing memory (in other words, talking - and now, through writing, even blogging, very subversive if you ask me, you may disagree but go ahead,…you’re allowed)…so it also felt intuitive to place the idea of memory or remembering SOMEWHERE in the piece…

This all could be summed up by saying: first seeing her reminded me of these beautiful things – but i wanted her to fall in love in with me, i wanted to inspire the reader to look at objects of their own desire in a way they never had before…it was and remains a tall order but it’s what you want to do every time out…you want to somehow change the universe for someone (sometimes it’s just yourself) with your ideas because it was done for you, to you by others before you and it’s a safe bet that these experiences/exchanges will continue long after my time…you want the words you choose to be vivid and strong and say a lot with a lot of power but often times it is (what you don’t say or) what you say by implication that has the most power.

SO…how much of this, in the end, applies to what i wrote that day?...all of it.

How much of this occurred to me WHILE i wrote it?...none of it.

it this i call…magic



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Ka'wahse (audio poem) feat. Duane Howard

Flute: Duane Howard

Ka'wahse*

wherever it is
i’ll more than likely see you there

i marvel at what is to be found at 2 am
(2:20, technically)

only in poems do dogs bite gently
and we call ourselves poets

sometimes I am taken by the thrill of recognition
of who we are (who the other is)
of what we do (have always done)
traveling light leaving nothing behind
packing up heavy sorrows for when they become useful
forced to understand, that at times,
we may make sense only to ourselves

there is nothing un-real
about an embrace on some half-remembered shore –
words spent high in mountaintops (which of course, you understand,
were once at the bottom of the sea?)

we dance our ridiculous lives beneath the pen
but eventually come clean,
admit these things matter
love things hard to hold onto –
people now distant as the moon, some only an arm’s length away

what will they understand of your footprints upon this ground? –
ashes that were once your bones –
your fingerprints upon their minds –
echoes of your voice in their dreams
when there was so much in the world to make us bleed

will everything you gave be enough?
the sad and beautiful part is that it will have to be

ours is to be transient and grounded at once
rooted in something no one can say

i say:
let those without black hair fret and strut
their final hour upon the stage, their idiot’s tale

which is simply another way to say:
i’m glad i was an indian

it is crucial to believe in things
like a good song,
time spent on that half-forgotten shore,
that somewhere,
we signified something

it is good knowing
that it is a cold distance
from here to the nearest star
but warm between this page
and where these words go


* (Mohawk word, meaning - Where are you going?)

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Faces (audio poem)

Duane Howard: Flute


FACES

a part of me died with him
a part of him lives with me
- Eduardo Galeano

Last night I saw you again, cousin, propped against the tree where I found you. Only this time, you weren’t holding a bottle. Instead, iced in your grip was a book. The one I always wanted you to read. I tried prying it from your hand but you wouldn’t let it go. When I woke up I smiled because it occurred to me that you never liked to read, saying life was too short for it. Then I got up and wrote about a storyteller.


-You can always tell when dogs have found someone and when coyotes have. Coyotes, you understand, are not like dogs. Out of fear, a dog will not eat from a discovered carcass for several days. But when he does, it is the stomach first - the delicate organs, I suppose. Next, the buttocks and thighs, then the calves and onward until finally, the gnawed remnants are discovered and eventually placed where they belong. No, they are not like dogs at all. Coyotes begin with the face and often it is all they eat. Maybe they think they can fool us and we won’t recognize the person we are looking for. When you are looking for someone who can’t be found, go out at night and listen. If you are patient you will hear them gather, those coyotes. Then you must go where the yips and barks are. When you get there, you must say nothing and move carefully until everything has been made proper. It’s like hunting.


Yes, we did these things together didn’t we, cousin? – Fracturing our delicate selves with the desperate company of strangers who did things dangerous and beautiful. Didn’t we quarrel and contend with the enemy, determined in the destruction of myth and making our own, sometimes actually making history? Didn’t we leave behind the cages, the scorched earth and fermented dreams, and a kind of slaughter every place we went?

We put you in the frozen ground and Joey cried, “I ain’t got a big brother no more!” I didn’t tell him he was wrong or right because I always doubt the things I’m sure of.

I left too, and went across the mountains. Now I live by the ocean, where the Indians are nice and care what people think of them. You don’t have to know anything out here, you need only appear to. You’d hate it, cousin. But, you’d be glad to know I still break the occasional glass and remain hell-bent on destroying notions. I write it down and read it for us and everyone at home and anybody else who cares to listen.

Tonight, I’ll take some of our favorite into the woods with me and spread a blanket out under a tree somewhere. Maybe I’ll hear coyotes. I’ll tilt my head back and listen for the rush of water and smoke a cigarette for you – that maybe, this is all there is…

this terminal condition.


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

fuck (audio poem)

Fuck
(or What Happens When Too Much Blood Enters the Alcohol System)

nothing seems to kill me,
no matter how hard i try…

and once again,
all this time there has been winter in my blood

but fuck it!
what i mean to say is:

yeah, i know,
nobody asked me to suffer,
that was my idea
but you have to grant me
that there is something sadly magnificent
about missing people you love
that you never even met

me and all other majestic groove locaters
from villages near and far
have decided it’s last call
down the hatch and bottoms up
this last one’s on you
(and believe me, one way or another, you’ll pay)

i have attacked ships on fire off the shoulder of orion
and at times drank like a pirate
i have blessed virgins in my own way
saw fit to shed them of their baubles
and though i didn’t love `em all
i loved as many of `em as i could

just like ronnie said: be my little baby!

i love her…i just don’t need her

in every dive, flop-house,
gin mill, hootch parlor
and booze can this side of the west pecos
i have been known to experience
the odd momentary lapse
in both judgment and reason

but i too have been known to sit with coyote
and grandma,
we raise our glasses, toast each other
and discuss corporations and bodily functions

blues?
yeah, i got the blues
i got the tombstone blues
and i ain’t never been to no delta
but i know what it is to be chased
by those same insatiable hellhounds

split my head open eight more times
i don’t give a rat’s ass
8 concussions can’t compare to the hangover
of a pint
plus a flap
plus a 26
plus an double
plus an eight ball
plus a 40 pounder
plus blah, blah, blah
plus yadda, yadda, yadda…

i’m the answer with all the questions,
try me

alex, i’ll take who the fuck am I?...for the whole fucken works!

and fuck kerouac, i really am Standing-
On-The-Road,
believe it

(did I hear someone free-associating?)

and, by the way!
that fucken guy didn’t die for my sins
i’m doing that every single day of my life
you’re all just the same old preachers selling the devil,
yourselves and all those other lame concepts
like canada and manifest destiny
and still wrapping yourselves in the strong arms of the union

so i think i’ll hang on to this aching heart
while tasting the liquor on these lips



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Addictions Intro

* this and the next 3 posts, ending with Addictions Outro are parts of a presentation i gave at Nicola Valley Institute - the seminar consisted of video and lecture and utilizes this blog and poetry to illustrate what i term Creative Approaches To Counseling - it will remain up for another week or so and be removed in December...dig it while ya can...

All There Is...(audio poem)

All There Is…

is an old woman's voice
in a run-down little house on a piece of borrowed land
this side of the reserve
I remember the old woman in dark skin and white hair telling me – warning me:
a story told without love will not be remembered

like indians do,
I took you as my grandmother, never having met either of my own (or my mother)
and I took those words as commandments
or more accurately, I took stewardship of your words,
I protected them
like indians do

my damaged memory of your ghostly form
is framed by crumpled leaves and dense grasses
deadfall and marshy muskeg,
I am not painting a quaint, rustic, idyllic landscape
not singing to the “oneness” of anything
I am beyond remembering
and singing my own song

in a place where I saw bent women, berry-picking
and one with lips, stained red and succulent
I tried but found I could never taste that good to her
and on and on and on…

I carry my grief and gladness and never look back

in these places…I saw
in every village, every town, each weigh station
I have been a pilgrim, a merchant trading stories, hands and more

at calgary
at brindisi,
at neskonlith
at santorini
at peace hills
at oaxaca
at napean
at musqueam
at white bear
at oslo
at yellowknife
at oppenheimer park

unvarnished episodes, encounters, entanglements
recorded only in an island of lost memories that you may have
of her telling you: it’s alright…you’re okay,
and these things were so only because she said they were

she has pulled us through birth canals and rites of passage…the death of my brothers
because of men she wore outmoded black veils and still
set broken bones, nourished us with compassion
we were astonished, emboldened, fed and far better…soothed
when we felt as motherless children
when we felt at the brink of cavernous dark

from the margins they shape the world
through cultures melding and those long since vanished
there are still glimpses of something permanent, eternal

it is that I long for the comfort of her voice
snatch for it like a thief
guard it like final embers carried
across tundra by dried mud tribes of stone age

once,
there were long strands of hair, shiny and damp
that fell across her shoulders, beneath the sunlight…

these sapphire-tinted recollections (every last one)
are her words and are air and water and reflection

I am nothing, sometimes not even a man
just a word-finder, conjurer of everything you have already said,
without you I would have stayed nothing, dust or the thought of it
but now something is created across time and space
because she was here, existed

the first mother wears these lakes and rivers,
mountains, meadows, towns and cities
and I am given to worship of things I cannot explain –
condemn those foolish enough to live without magic –

she teaches me to understand
that every woman is someone’s daughter on this perilous journey
that life beyond every kind of poverty is better
and though yet hungry for that great wisdom and power
I am still ashamed (though still alive),
still asking the same foolish questions as in ages past

but for you I am contented with love…every kind of love
and I now know where all words come from
with me it is sacred faith that there is grace among storm
and on certain miracle nights, sometimes, I almost feel…beloved

the great wisdom of her collective ages:
that love does not conquer
but it can survive…

it has at least that much power


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Honour Song (poem)...

Peace, my friend,
peace

there is no darkness, only not knowing

so pray…and believe

and I think I can see you –
I can see those brown eyes half on their way to heaven
I look with sight more honest
than my eyes deliver
I listen to you, to your songs
(some unchanged in a thousand years)
with something more true
than my ears can hear
Walk with me awhile
with something more real
than the touch of my hand upon your shoulder

Here, together
there is no more turning away
there is no more tearing ourselves in two
If there is any comfort here for you
know that I too am sick with my experience
I marvel at the strange rivers we have crossed
rivers on whose far banks lie forests
where men, women and children are lost
we seek shelter
and someone with that look in their eye
though our hearts may have grown weary
and just a little shy

In another life
I may have brought bridled horses and game –
for you, for your family
and spoken of good things between us and Nations
For a night or two
I might have stayed outside your lodges
with those horses, and waited
sleeping only after you and yours had done so first
perhaps I carried a powerful bundle or shield –
carried them for everyone

Yet today,
we are here, together
Though there may still be an aching sadness –
for those ones crossed over –
they are not gone – they do not sleep
but have awakened from the dream of life
(as spirits live forever)
It is we who stumble
through these stormy visions
chasing phantoms and madness
Must we still decay and wither
and fall each day with our fear, shame and grief? –
our days before this
little more than cold hopes?

Then pray…and believe

The Oldest One remains
Many will change and pass
but there is a light that forever shines
and while Earth’s shadows fly
our hearts will be opened wide

And when I fall –
when I am caught down deep, beyond all reach
I will keep you safe with me, like a warm wind
like a sweet waterfall

When I close my eyes I see you –
you are walking on a bridge
glancing over the mysterious water
there is still a trace of fear
but I can also see that you know
there is something better
yes, you know there are things better
than to live in dark water

And after all this,
when some gentle night descends
when there is, at last, stillness
when you are no longer alone at sea
but close to my heart
I will look to the West
to see a great and glorious red sky – an eternal sky

I will whisper things sacred
like…hear me
like…remember
like…your name,
and I will wonder
if you too can see that same red sky

addictions outro

Big Brown Beautiful Bannock-Stuffed Indians (audio poem)

Big Brown Beautiful Bannock-stuffed Indians…

are puttin’ on their bingo shirts
and headed down to the hall early for the good seats
grab seven chicken and spud meals to go –
alright, gimme 20 dollars worth and a Bonanza!

darkened and bulging eating muscles
just a goin’ to beat ol’ sixty
with a smoldering pihtwanis* dangling here
and a Pepsi making the rounds there –
I can’t get lucky, I was born lucky!

Big brown beautiful bannock-stuffed Indians
are dancing all night in great circles
ribbon shirts and wranglers
and numberless children all doing the indigenous shuffle –
hey, anybody see where my kids went?

bannock-slapped and neck-boned to the brim
with room only for tea…and the next meal
food always tastes better when it’s free
besides, who needs money on a good rez anyway? –
ho-la, there’s a lot of neechees here tonight!

Big brown beautiful bannock-stuffed Indians
are trying to win and round-dance in the cities
tradition is taking its own sweet time
but it’s coming…and everybody knows everybody –
Dear Uncle, it’s just like you said it would be…

home-fed scouts and wide-eyed warriors
are in every place you care to look
pounding on pavement, doors and drums
and recreating ourselves constantly –
I am home, I am home, I am home



* pihtwanis – Cree word for “cigarette”


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Reservation Girl (song)

words and music by Larry Nicholson


she’s a weapon of destruction
She’s my worst best friend
I give her all I got and then I do it again
I build the fire for you baby
I’m running all the way around the world
you got me disappearin’ mama
you reservation girl

I wanna be her caddy
I’m her love dump truck
gave her daddy all my horses she don’t give a fuck
just a round-dancin’ fool
we’re dancing all the way around the world
get yer mercy on baby,
reservation girl

she stays out all night
shuts the road house town
I was easy pickings baby
hitchin' in from town
I ain’t smoking signals
no I’m talking to you
she lookin right through me
everything I do…

she’s a satellite shooting
through my nighttime sky
I’d be a bigger man but all I do is cry
I’m digging in a hole
She’s running all the way around the world
I keep digging deeper
For my reservation girl…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

I Thought Of You (song)

words and music by Larry Nicholson


I was still a boy when you made me a man
Didn’t know it then but now I understand
I thought of you (I thought of you)
Like the gambler rolling straight sevens
I see brown eyes half on their way to heaven
And I thought of you I thought of you
Now I dream the dreams of heroes and kings
And I’ve been a fool for lesser things
I know this love’s true ‘cause I thought of you

For the first time this morning I felt awake
When next we meet on that hill all the love I take
I take for you…it’s all for you
Now in my sleep I laugh out loud
When I’m on the street I’m walking proud
‘cause I’m with you I’m with you
I’ve come to believe in this miracle we’ve started
Never again to be broken hearted
It all came true ‘cause I thought of you

We come and we go hand in hand
Over the water across the sand
And I’m with you…I found you
In light of day we see love shine
The kisses we share sweet red wine
I’ll be true…be true to you
And now the wind never blows cold
Dark never threatens, it’ll never take hold
It’s all coming true cause I thought of you…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

East Van Nightmare (song)

words and music by Larry Nicholson

last night in an east van nightmare
time for one last score
looked hard but there’s no one out here
nobody here no more
might be a thief but you just can’t steal it
can’t find the key
might be in love but you just can’t feel it
looks like her love is leaving me

an indian warrior asleep in the cellar
can’t see the soldiers coming through
so many things that I wanted to tell her
i'll never know if she wanted me to
only bloodshot bugs knew my name here
like waiting for the flood
a cruel wind blew hard through my life, dear
like winter in my blood

no place for you to run to (baby)
no place to hide
when the music stops you go crazy
you’re gone like the tide

now one soft and velvet morning
went down to the sea
at Jericho I was born again
embraced the mystery
the sky was never so blue before
if she could see my world
gonna knock on every door
gonna find that girl

only ever sick as our secrets
it's no place to stay
surrender all the regrets
give it all away


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Native Son (song)

...this song (Native Son) was one of the first two I ever wrote...looking back I realize that it was in `88 that I strung up the guitar I had, learned some chords - and I was off!...the following year (making this song over 20 years old...fuckin' A!) I wrote this song and a little ditty called The Game and it's been downhill ever since - Ha-ha! both tunes came very easily, this one was probably written in about an hour and by god, NOTHING in my life ever came quite as automatically although elsewhere on this blog is a song that was written in about 25 minutes one night (i won't say which one)...in retrospect, I was corrupted early in life by the ease with which my first two songs came and it led me to think songwriting didn't seem so tough (and maybe it isn’t...for some) - i have many, many songs so achingly close to completion, it's always the case where if i can just find that one line or lyric that will elevate it to...poetry...my problem, as I see, it is that I love Dylan and Springsteen so much and listen to their music so often (both, daily, like medicine) that any song in comparison seems, oh...I don't know...crappy?...but what the fuck!...I’m engaging in the timeless practice of "speaking to the universe" and whatever may happen in this giant, ever-expanding universe, there is only one song called Native Son (well, that's not true, there are several out there, ha-ha!!) but there's only one written by Larry the (aspiring) Cree superhero...I damn near recognize the innocence in the clichéd lyrics that make it precious to me and it never changes that I am moved and find something entirely mystical about creating, conjuring something…out of nothing...as I’ve mentioned before, this blog may be entirely an exercise in ego if that's what the reader wants to think but as of this writing only about 400 visits have come down and each time I add or edit counts as one, so, it's more like I’ve had about 250 visits, no sensible person is trying to get famous buy posting simple songs on Freeblogger - get real!...but hey man, I'm a songwriter, poem maker, word wrangler extraordinaire and what could be more romantic an idea that writing a poem or a song even?...as a matter of fact, it’s ballsy!...onward, and thanks fer stopping by…whoever you are…


NATIVE SON

words and music by Larry Nicholson


I was born of the earth
Like my brothers those whom came first
Now I live in a city of steel
some days I forget how I should to feel
My grandmother’s grandmother lived in the days
Where the nation you lived was something to praise
But happened to our love for the land?
Now all that we care is to meet the demand…

Some days I walk through the streets of this place
I see once proud people laid out in disgrace
I’ve heard it said we deserve what we get
We’re useless and lazy, unworthy and yet
If someday you could through my eyes
You’d have understanding you might realize
If you always believe what you see and you hear
There will come a time when we’ll all disappear

I was born the native son
Till the end of time my spirit will run
Say what you like but nothing’s more true
Than I am no better but no worse than you
It’s taken some time but now I can see
Who it is that I’ve been and who I can be
And I’ll be…I will be free…

I hope wisdom will come from days that have passed
And I hope that of my kind you won’t see the last
It’s a time where matters most is what sells
We think we know all but we don’t know ourselves
The measure of a man’s not the car that he drives
It’s how affects another man’s life
There are ones who can see and will understand
we’re all brothers in spirit if not on the land

I was born the native son…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Raining Again (The Pissing Song)

words and music by Larry Nicholson


well there’s whole list of grievance
baby and it’s ten miles long
when she kissed me on the cheek
I shoulda known that there was something wrong
there’s size 12 boots underneath her bed
my vagabond shoes are only tens instead
she’s pissing on my back and telling me that it’s raining again
that it’s raining again

I called up the DJ
said he’d play my favorite tune
stayed up all night drawing flies and staring at the moon
at the crack of dawn there’s nothing but dead air
signed off in the morning saying: laissez-fair!
they're pissing on my back and tell me that it’s raining again
that it’s raining again

they keep throwing sinkers
just like you throw a dog a bone
you scratch their back
but when it hits the fan you’re all alone

when the mortgage man winked
I put my name upon the dotted line
I got the keys to the mansion
I’m payin’ for my peace of mind
when the meltdown hit they said: you’re outta luck
I’m sleeping by the river in my pickup truck
they're pissing on my back and telling me that’s it’s raining again
that it’s raining again

preacher man said he loved me
said he’d take away my sin
for 10 hail marys
and all my money for the tin
St Peter shook his head and then he sent me back
now im reaching for a rifle straight up off the rack
they keep pissing on my back and tell me that’s it’s raining again
that it’s raining again


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Foolish Destiny (song)

words and music: Larry Nicholson


In the misty silent twilight that nobody knows
the windswept field where nobody goes I stand naked
Listen for the sweet sounds above all the screams
Intruding on dreams of truth and the ones who forsake it
I’m as upside down as I am inside out
Resting in the shade of the hollows in a shadow of doubt

In the skin of a lion on a chestnut mare
You contrast and compare and find only your indignation
To be hounded and haggard but never to break
You say it’s all a mistake and shake your fist at your station
Your love of pride keeps you strong and courageous
You belong to no heart, only to the ages

The faith of convenience is the hollowest faith
It puts free men in bondage, feeds rivers of hate and enslaves us
Investing twenty four-karat hope in uncertain things –
Fools gold-plated rings but the meek shall inherit and save us
In my poetry mama says: “child, don’t cry for me –
I’ve gone to that place behind sleep where everyone’s free”

A candle in the window flickers and fades,
midnight black it invades, still burning for those left uncertain
A glimmer of hope weds a glimmer of grace
reaching out to a place obscured by night’s angry curtain
Is the darkness that I’m in really inside of me?
Is it ancient wisdom I seek or just foolish destiny?



©2010 Champsteen Publishing

Audio Poem (Is It Your Blood?...)

(Larry Nicholson)

IS IT YOUR BLOOD?...

in these children
as they lark in the shallow water of the river
oblivious to old words
and so much time

these shiny-haired children at play
some named after you,
some with your eyes
these sons and daughters of darkness and light
carrying our best hopes, vague as they may be
that here, 100 years on
things might be different

to sit and look upon the young at their brilliant best
is to hear echoes of you in their laughter
it is to remember time out of mind
before a cavalcade of others
and their rush for gold – their lust
left so many of the brightest trampled underfoot

Is it your blood?

in dense sagebrush, sun-baked hills
and coursing through steel-head streams
that moves us to demand an accounting of things
to cling to the notions behind words that read:
they might do the square thing by us in the end

some days it takes a kind of strength
to remember (or believe)
that there ever was a day when hearts were warm
when all the country was so much more
than just pieces of land

to sit quiet and listen for the rush of water
is to seek your whispered words
learn your hard lessons
know the quiet victories
of you the peaceful soldiers of nameless nights
many times without place to rest your thoughts

100 years on
we know the tongues of angels and the tongues of men
we ride the ribbon highways
walk the golden valleys
see the endless sky-way
we leave our own impressions
spread across silver sand and diamond desert

we form markers and monuments
so others may know something of the sacred trust
that lies before us all

we find ourselves, at times, in the border towns of despair
asking what it is to regret what you’ve done
when you’ve never had a choice
(forgetting there is only one thing we must do)
thinking that somehow we needed to nurse your wounds
heal your hurts, soothe your aches
losing sight of the fact
that as you surge through these veins
we are your prayers answered

Is it your blood?

that sounds in the windy voice of conscience
that resonates louder and more deeply
with each passing hour
each passing day
each passing life

that reminds us the land is not merely a stage
upon which mountains, rivers and forests are simply props
little places, set pieces, where we play out our human drama

no,
this land lives
surely as i walk and talk and take you with me
some days the best i can do is resist the urge to sit back
and curse being caught between overlapping nightmares

Is it your blood?

that remind us
that children raised to revere this land as the domain of spirits
will not be the same as ones brought up to cut the land –
to tame it

there is no wilderness but what is in the heart
if you know this country as the people do

long, long after there are any voices
to ask these questions
there is just your good blood
coursing throughout

i raise my arms to the night time sky –
the great nation that is the sky
where you glimmer in constellations

where the only darkness is in not knowing
that we are lost…

only in wonder



Vancouver, July 27, 2010


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

...ya never forget yer first...

taken the day i turned 18 and the day i bought and insured my first car - then, it was already 12 years old, a '75 Chev Caprice (350 cubic-inch V8) - to this day, i remain a ragtop man...

124 (Bluestone Road) - song for Toni Morrison

words and music: larry nicholson


bare feet and chamomile sap, call all your sons and daughters
kick off your shoes take off your hat, i'm a-keep you warm
this ain't no story for passing round - it's just me and black water
diamonds float and she'll bring you down into forever land

see dixie fires burning sweet home men, that's what they call "The Union"
ohio river up around the bend, it ain't no promised land
losing everything then losing more - that's what the hell we're doing
same old spite knocking at my door, the one we left behind

come out come out on bluestone road, where fireflies are dying,
mother's milk and mother's blood, a-body's misery
away away from bluestone road, somewhere a baby's crying
lay me down in the velvet woods, forever's calling me

chokecherry tree painted on my back, lips across the branches
like smoking steel on a railroad track, the echoes of a soul
the war ain't over it's just moved inside me, i've taken too may chances
i'll show the scars but you gotta remind me what the living's for

come out come out on bluestone road where fireflies are dying
mother's milk and mother's blood, a-body's misery
away away from bluestone road, somewhere a baby's crying
lay me down in the velvet woods, forever's calling me...



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

...A Story About: Story...(or keeping up w/ the Robinsons)...

...it is so much fun to try and put these things together - songs, that is, blog posts too, for that matter - doesn't matter what the song is about, it's still like trying to wrestle something out of your own hands, it's still like something eats at you, challenging you, daring you to try and bring it along - i won't comment on the quality (and i'm not foisting material on anyone, remember, it's a blog...you're here by choice) it's just that when i listen to singer songwriter types, it makes me wanna do it (it moves me to act, which is such a powerful phenomenon in our lives) i'm embarrassed because i still constantly air-guitar a motion as if i was strumming a guitar, unconsciously aaaalllll the time (oh well, beats suckin' my thumb)...

this is a ten year old song - I'm cereal!!! i made my first one when i was 19 (that's 20 YEARS, man! - yi-i-i-kes!!!) - - for this one, a really dear friend was getting married, we had known each other for years, a chicklet when i met her through her sister - we all worked at Lake Louise (early 90's- both girls made a profound impression on me)- we stayed connected and eventually wound up classmates together at UBC's Creative Writing Department, where Rebecca met Tim when he directed her play for a festival, she and i were pretty tight then, real pals and i remember watching it all go down and when they announced their engagement i knew i wanted to get something special for them...i was loathe to get the kinda gift that everybody else usually gets for weddings (my theory: if EVERYBODY's doing something...it CAN'T be that good - LOL - what does THAT imply?!?!)...anyway...they have 3 kids now (their youngest born on my birthday, very sporting of them)- this one was from the heart, has no expiry date...i'm giving this background because it, in part, explains songwriting process (in theory), it touches on inspiration and creativity and i love both topics as much as i love the Schaap girls and their dear family - i've witnessed both their weddings and now both have a gang of their own (Jess, recently had her first baby, whoo-hoo!) and i dig "here from there" stories....for me, it's a good story and a trip - and i always say: it's good have some company when you're going on a long ride...

STORY

words and music: larry nicholson


well they say that love’s dying
i can’t stand the news
they want all the heroes to lose
i’ve been to the mountain
seen wide open skies
i know the secrets in your eyes

i’ll sing you my story
it ain’t full of glory
it’s all that I know and it’s all that i am
i can’t promise tomorrow that we won’t know sorrow
but if you want it from me I can get it
can get love for you
get love for you
i can get love for you...

i can see shadows falling
in the light of this fire
it’s turning and burning
burning higher
follow me to the ocean
follow me to the sea
follow me to the morning
follow me, oh follow me…

when you think that the best of me
is so far behind
that’s when you’ll see the rest of me
and you’ll find all the love of this heart
this heart that can shine,
this heart that can shine…

will I see you at midnight?
when your tears fall like rain
mother father before me
they might say, they might say…

i won’t say that I’m sorry
for this kind of glory
it’s small but like all the rest in the sense
that it takes my breath from me to think you might love me
to know everything that I’ve done
has led me to you
led me to you
led me here to you

if it’s true and love’s dyin’
we won’t turn away
we’ll keep each other’s story
night and day...



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Peace Hills (song)

words and music: larry nicholson



peace hills gave life and breath to me
in these fields low on the plains
i am running with the river
till the peace hills call me again

across the way the far-off mountains
they say beyond lies the sea
if i never cross those mountains
kiss those ocean shores for me

this stony life took my family
i’m told they wait on a distant shore
so i’m going cross those mountains
and i’ll search again no more

it’s this torch i hold above me
all who pass will know my face
in the storm that ever greets me
i take shelter i find grace

when the last wind comes a-blowin’
and that plain is all you see
peace hills call me from forever
storm and grace and is all there be



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Peace Hills (song)

words and music: larry nicholson



peace hills gave life and breath to me
in these fields low on the plains
i am running with the river
till the peace hills call me again

across the way the far-off mountains
they say beyond lies the sea
if i never cross those mountains
kiss those ocean shores for me

this stony life took my family
i’m told they wait on a distant shore
so i’m going cross those mountains
and i’ll search again no more

it’s this torch i hold above me
all who pass will know my face
in the storm that ever greets me
i take shelter i find grace

when the last wind comes a-blowin’
and that plain is all you see
peace hills call me from forever
storm and grace and is all there be



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

As The Crow Flies (song)

words and music: larry nicholson


will you still be my love when i cross the sea?
with a heavy heart or triumphantly
i'll come back to you with the world on the rise
looking for you steady as the crow flies

this road is less traveled this path made of thorns
my raging heart lives on while you go chasing storms
beside ancient mountains where ocean meets the sky
i'll meet you there ready as the crow flies

down near the eddy there’s a river of tears
she cuts like that water marking cold hopes and fears
on knees bruised and bent the woman prays while she cries
over some half-remembered lost shore as the crow flies

bridge 1
some use broken wheels and sail leaky boats
spend half our days all our nights just to float
it's like floating forever, forever caught up high
we'll get on with the journey as the crow flies

on ragged wings i sailed lonely nights east
they painted me with false colors like a kind of cruel beast
the city blurs my vision and puts smoke in my eyes
tonight i still see you as the crow flies

false-hearted lovers - jagged sense of romance
back into ashes and dust we will dance
the heart that's gone weary is the heart that dies
watching forever for you as the crow flies

bridge 2
black wings beat through this city tonight
is this flesh and blood or a trick of the light?
when my bones have turned pale and the flames have all died
the silence will keep us as the crow flies

can you save the best part of your beautiful soul?
does your mother remember you young strong and whole?
you paid for your freedom with loss and goodbyes
with nothing left to haunt you as the crow flies

when your friends ain't your friends when the world is unkind
you've read all the books and you've been left behind
i put it all down for you, i'm putting down all the lies
tonight i still need you as the crow flies...


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Inner City East Side Red Man's Blues (song)

words and music: larry nicholson



i’m pretty used up, i’m pretty worn out, i’m pretty beat down
not much call for a brown town crier town in a one horse town
you make your stand, make your bed, make your play
writing it down is to write it on clouds - it drifts away

you’re pretty weird, you’re pretty strange, your pretty voice
your shoulder blade, your raven’s hair my drug of choice
the wrecking ball rules my life, the street life drone
i wouldn’t say nothing, just know what i’d do if i had you alone

i’m so far from home
and I’m waiting for you
can i sail you away -
when i come for you?
leave these red man’s blues

pay the rent, pay the price, pay your dues
i’m a method actor playing the role in these red man’s blues
salt of the earth, salt the wound, assault my sense
you found me out, you caught me up on your barbed wire fence

you’re not your friends, you’re not your job, you’re not your art
i recognize you from your sweet voice and your restless heart
shore to shore, skin to skin, mouth to mouth
we could run all night, run for good - north, east, west and south

and i’m so far from home…
and i’ll wait for you…
can i sail you away –
when i come for you?

leave these red man’s blues
leave these red man’s blues
these red man’s blues…



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Indians Don't Go To Memphis (Midnight on A Freight Train) - song

words and music by larry nicholson


midnight on a freight train
is all I’ll ever be
it's hard to walk away smiling
so hard to be set free
half my weight is memory
the other half carved in stone
i’ll get to Memphis in a bottle
this life’s bred in the bone

some people get paid for their opinion
some swing the hammer all day
some folks get paid for selling Jesus
then get paid to take it all away
you carry on with your kindness
you get caught where the river bends
where the dogs don’t bite gently
each reserve is condemned

bad news, bad news
for the traveling man…

cross every palm you see with silver
the hollow men that you seek
in a house made of dawn there
her icy kiss upon the cheek
you learn to live in silence
in the twilight of your mind
fight back the dark with violence
see the world through a heart gone blind

sad news, sad news
what’s gonna help you sleep?...

dime store politicians
sell the rivers and the breeze
medicine show revolutions
can’t see the forest for the trees
the Indian and the maiden
we’re not long for the world
no heart was made for breaking
but you'd die for the dark-eyed girl

you choose, you choose…

off to Memphis in a freight train
its all you’ll ever be…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

was recently catching up with friend whom I lived and worked with at Lake Louise (90 mins West of Calgary), for nearly 3 years this was the approximate view from our backyard, well...our front yard - - There are places in the world AS beautiful, but none MORE so...

...everybuddy's got one...

I live next door the world’s latest empire.
America is history’s most recent example of an empire.
This is no exaggeration, I really believe it. The paradigm may be different but the result is the same. The United States is a fitting example of one nation oppressing all others (as well as its own people)in the pursuit of obscene and senseless self-interest and in turn benefiting an elite few (and their friends) at the reigns of power.
***
You history and war buffs (and the like) that get turned on by learning about previous civilizations such as the British and French Empires, The Chinese, the Huns, the Romans, the Greeks, the Egyptians and….sorry folks, but the Incas and the Aztecs all must know that these storied empires were built on the backs of the oppressed and powerless, the poor, the lowly of birth. Some things never change…at least haven’t yet.
***
The only difference between Americans and Canadians is that the latter find it “distasteful” to be thought of as Americans.
Let’s get real!
Their history is the same, their language is the same, their religion is the same, their culture is the same but more telling and more relevant is the fact that their “values” are the same. They love to run around the rest of the planet “helping out” whenever there is catastrophe in some faraway “other” when the people whose lands they now inhabit (and in which they have become quite wealthy, comfortable and happy) experience a hardship…no wait, what I mean to say and what is more accurate, is…indigenous people (the world over) experience mortality, that is DEATH, at a much higher rate than others and endure a quality of life far, far below those who have immigrated there and now call these places home
***
Treaties and Promises - Ancient history? So is the Bible, so is the Constitution, let’s scrap all these things then and start from scratch with equal power sharing. I am wary at this prospect however because I feel certain more than few Canadians still relish the idea of “taking care” of Natives once and for all and then starting “for real” free of the Indian problem.
***
As far as I know (which immediately makes all this relative/reductionist) the historical clash between races has been around as long as man…(sorry)…persons has er, have. Man, I go an event here in Vancouver, and sometimes I STILL get the stink eye when I say that I’m Cree…and this from other skins.

How long has the balance been skewed in gender power dynamics? That is, historically speaking, how long have men been oppressing women? Where - when and how has it changed?

I think about these things critically - healthy skepticism is a good thing because it helps me “get real,” that is, it helps me formulate useful approaches, its helps me decide what is a reasonable activity for me to be involved in, in terms of changing a circumstance – on what scale is the situation taking place, what is a reasonable expectation or outcome – what is a constructive approach (I tried all the other kinds, lol)…this helps me stay balanced, so that I don’t get depressed when I can’t change the world each and every single day…there is always SOMETHING progressive that can take place…always
***
orientation or information training should be MANDATORY for ANYONE without previous experience who wants to become involved with non-profit organizations. This means: volunteers, employees and board members. Many, many people who come to these places do not have the first clue about how they are structured, run, and what they are obligated to do not only for the client/community but for the funder. It is public money, not FREE money – as such, you must meet certain requirements as agreed upon between the organization and the funder (usually the Government, either directly or indirectly), and as a non-profit organization, you are bound by regulations contained in the Society Act. I have seen many, many people join an non-profit org with guns-a-blazin,’ rootin’- rootin, shit-kickin’ in mind and they get so hurt, disillusioned and discouraged because they end up jaded and feeling powerless because it said on the “pamphlet” this that and the other thing was gonna happen and they think: right on! – this ain’t some corporate monolith rippin' the people off, we’re gonna take it all back!!!...

...What The People In Africa Gave Me...

As one who writes I seek to convey meaning and hopefully have something useful to say from time to time. So it was then that I recently heard a story told by Anna, a Native (Indian) woman, who provided me and about 20 others various instruction and training. This woman has been in the field of wellness for years and years and was one of the first qualified in trauma work and has been all over the world learning, teaching and helping. A few years ago she and few others traveled to isolated communities in Central and East Africa that had been ravaged by war, sickness and brutality of every description. They came trained and prepared to do work in trauma and grief as many had seen family killed right before their eyes by military and tribal authorities and henchmen. Anna reported to us that one day they entered a village and were introduced to survivors and when the interpreter explained that the woman was Native and from North America, a great clamor arose. Anna was puzzled because upon the introduction and explanation of who she was, the group grew very anxious and excited but it was unclear what the nature of this excitement was about. Several villagers even ran off. As the helpers began explaining what they were there to do 2 elderly women were brought forward by those who had run away and they seemed desperate for Anna’s attention. They wanted to know, specifically, if it was true that Anna came from where they said. “Are you truly from North America? Are you really a Native person from there?” The elderly women were very emotional and it took some time though the interpreter to explain the validity of my friend’s words about her origins. When my friend confirmed through nods and affirmative signs that what they were hearing was so, the women began to wail and one actually fell to the ground. The 2 women then summoned the courage and asked if they could touch Anna, that is, they wanted to place their hands on her. Now Anna’s been to a lot of places, experienced many things and is an elder herself but even she was unprepared for what this gesture was about but she permitted it without question. As the women moved forward and gently placed their hands on Anna, her head, shoulders, her arms and so on, the woman began sobbing again uncontrollably as did the whole group of assembled villagers. It was explained to Anna later that for many years the people were brutalized repeatedly by authorities and terrorized with a very specific threat. They were told: do as we say for if you do not, when the Americans arrive, we’ll have them do to you what they did to the Indians there - they will exterminate you and you will cease to exist. These people lived under the idea that there were no longer indigenous people in North America, that they (we) were all dead. The people of the village were awed by the sight of my friend Anna who told them that Indians are living and that there are many in many places all over the continent. It began to emerge during her time there that the tyrants used this threat to get their compliance and to instill in them the fear of annihilation. It was explained that the elderly ladies had been under this fearful impression so long that only the placing of their hands upon Anna could prove to them that she was real and that there was truth in her words that she was who she said she was. To actually touch someone they thought never existed filled them with overwhelming gratitude and most precious of all…hope. The old women cried and cried and cried because they had forgotten what it felt like to have hope. Anna embodied the hope that their people might survive. As they explained it, if Indians, living under the most powerful nation on earth with the mightiest army and the mightiest weapons could survive and flourish then might they also? They were told we were all dead and how were they supposed they know otherwise? - when living and dying is in the balance day in day out your entire life - when loved ones were arbitrarily beaten or killed in front of you or simply taken away never to return. Anna reports how heart-wrenching it was to leave because the idea of safety is so precarious for these people that naturally they were afraid and didn’t want her to go.

I am the type of person deeply affected by stories like this. It is a powerful thing to feel connected somehow to people I will likely never meet but who I honor in one of the only ways I know how. The simple fact that I exist and that my being alive can be so deeply important to a group of gentle Africans a world away speaks to what I refer to as the immensity and potency of the soft power we carry.

I love this life.

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

It's mother's day...

this poem was originally composed for International Women's Day...

- - -

All THERE IS...

is the sound of an old woman's voice
in a run-down little house on a piece of borrowed land
this side of the reserve
I remember her in dark skin and white hair telling me, warning me –
a story told without love will not be remembered

like indians do,
I took you as my grandmother, never having met either of my own (or my mother)
and I took those words as commandments
or more accurately, I took stewardship of your words,
I protected them
like indians do

my damaged memory of your ghostly form
is framed by crumpled leaves and dense grasses
deadfall and marshy muskeg,
I am not painting a quaint, rustic, idyllic landscape
not singing to the “oneness” of anything
I am beyond remembering
and singing my own song

in a place where I saw bent women, berry-picking
and one with lips, stained red and succulent
I tried but found I could never taste that good to her
and on and on and on…

I carry my grief and gladness and never look back

in these places…I saw
in every village, every town, each weigh station
I have been a pilgrim, a merchant, trading stories, hands and more

at calgary
at brindisi,
at neskonlith
at santorini
at peace hills
at oaxaca
at napean
at musqueam
at white bear
at oslo
at yellowknife
at oppenheimer park

unvarnished episodes, encounters, entanglements
recorded only in an island of lost memories that you may have
of her telling you: it’s alright…you’re okay,
and these things were so only because she said they were

she has pulled us through birth canals and rites of passage…the death of my brothers
because of men she wore outmoded black veils and still
set broken bones, nourished us with compassion
we were astonished, emboldened, fed and far better…soothed
when we felt as motherless children
when we felt at the brink of cavernous dark

from the margins they shape the world
through cultures melding and those long since vanished
there are still glimpses of something permanent, eternal

it is that I long for the comfort of her voice
snatch for it like a thief
guard it like final embers carried
across tundra by dried mud tribes of stone age

once,
there were long strands of hair, shiny and damp
that fell across her shoulders, beneath the sunlight…

these sapphire-tinted recollections (every last one)
are her words and are air and water and reflection

I am nothing, sometimes not even a man
just a word-finder, conjurer of everything you have already said,
without you I would have stayed nothing, dust or the thought of it
but now something is created across time and space
because she was here, existed

the first mother wears these lakes and rivers,
mountains, meadows, towns and cities
and I am given to worship of things I cannot explain –
condemn those foolish enough to live without magic –

she teaches me
to understand that every woman is someone’s daughter on this perilous journey
that life beyond every kind of poverty is better
and though yet hungry for that great wisdom and power
I am still ashamed (though still alive),
still asking the same foolish questions as in ages past

but for you I am contented with love…every kind of love
and now I know where all words come from
it is sacred faith that there is grace among storm
and on certain miracle nights, sometimes, I almost feel…beloved

the great wisdom of her collective ages:
that love cannot conquer
but it can survive…

it has at least that much power


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

The Distance (song)

words and music: Larry Nicholson
guitar and vocal: Larry
guitar: Brett Richardson
(recorded in-studio with Jean Ardilla at Co-op radio)


walk down Pacific Boulevard
the Indian man he sat alone, he played guitar
sat conjuring people and places that he'll never see
(he said) i'm not old but i ain't young no more
i never see the faces of the ones i did before
there's been a journey in my heart full of dark mystery
and it ends somewhere in the distance

I find it sad what some find funny
sometimes making love's like making money
there's no room for men and women in the bottom line
is there still a place for sacred things?
worth more than all the fool's gold, the diamond rings?
is it here?...is it now?...do we all shine?

Sarah sang her gentle song for you and i
that sound across these distant waters, the forever sky
she went home she left our hearts opened wide
hey little sister can you ride the wind?
up around that big old painted moon, back down again
if there’s a memory left behind
i'll meet you there...in the distance

is there nothing left to do? is there nothing left to say?
you can see the bridges burning, we may have wanted it that way
there's a silence lives between us, it's what we build, it's what we make
it's what we take...into the distance

sleep tight my pretty lady, the moon is almost on the rise
when the ghosts have left the room i'll look into those eyes
i'll pretend i'm there and i'll wait
guess i'm just a dusty dreamer in this world that makes you tough
there’s still a chance for poets and runaways if we want it bad enough
to live enchanted in the earth, in the torment
in your eyes...and every instance

are we true just like a northern star?
or like the Indian man whose home is his guitar?
is there something in this night for you and me?
like ragged crows that fill the skies at night down in the eastside part of town
we're all still someone's sons and daughters
never knowing where we're bound
like the turning of the leaves we're all lost and then we're found
one by one we'll fly away...

© 2009 Champsteen Publishing

Charlie's Lullaby (song)

words and music: Larry Nicholson
guitar and vocal: larry
drum, bass keyboard, background vocal: Kristi Haavisto
violin: Jessica Deutsch
(produced and recorded by Kristi at1st Nations Longhouse, UBC)

welcome to the world dear
it's warm beside you dear
with mama in the sky dear
and heaven down here on earth dear

you called out my name love
in my sleep where you came love
the wild and the tame love
i look and they're one and the same love

you brought rain to the sky dear
i'm happy to cry dear
i'll never know why dear
that you came all this way just for me dear

you're free like the bird child
you are the prayer that was heard child
i know not the word child
for the light that you brought to the world child

called out my name love
in my sleep where you came love
the wild and the tame love
i look and they're one and the same love...

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

...WELL...THAT'S WHAT I HEARD...

For this one don’t get hung up on the details, think about the message. It’s a – The Power of Story – article. We hear this all the time in Indian country (for the record: every square inch of turtle Island/N. America is Indian country) and typically it seems we refer to a round the campfire, legend type story, designed to reflect a perspective on morality or codes of conduct and so on. This article is similar it - just doesn’t have as many furry animals running around in it.

Personal assertion number one: Nobody KNOWS anything (for certain)…it’s proven time and time again, people merely have their version of the same the story. This idea contains all sorts of implications (ie. meanings, understandings about it); who’s telling the story, why are they telling it today, where did they get the story, will the story be understood differently by a different person or group of people? In my mind all these things are relevant depending on the story.

So.

Dangerous Story-Telling Scenario 1 – in university I observe a young, white, PhD, lecturing on N. American Native History to approximately 40 or so other white people and 7 or 8 Indians. The 35 year old-ish man was American, had earned his credentials in America gathering material on native groups of the Mexo-American Southwest and on the day in question was speaking on residential schools. Many in the (mostly white, mostly twenty-ish) classroom I learned were working toward an undergraduate’s degree in Native Studies, which for many will establish them as experts on the subject (yikes! - and even more annoyingly, probably land them a job with some organization because they will be considered more qualified than say, an actual native person, but…I digress). I watched as they studiously scribbled down the instructor’s words day after day, frequently asking if he would mind repeating some snippet they were eager to record in their notebooks. Then the instructor offered the information that while there was abuse in some residential schools, it needed to be known that the authorities meant well and it was a scheme originally conceived to help the Indians. This caused uproar as you might expect among we native students and we debated the statement and many other aspects of this particular issue for a length of time that eventually was deemed too long and we were forced to move along. Now the reader may or may not know that the Canadian government contracted the Church because they would take of Canada’s well known “Indian problem.” They had experience at this in other parts of the world but what was most appealing to the policy makers of the day? It was far cheaper than doing it themselves. It was a bottom line decision (*in fact, the Europeans who colonized Africa were so impressed by the effectiveness of Canada’s reservation system that it was implemented in South Africa and called Apartheid…look it up!) No sensible person takes at face value the rhetoric surrounding policies that forcibly removed children from their families under threat of punishment, systematically stripped them their language and culture and exposed them to rampant abuse of every kind. No one actually believes (or did believe) this was a way of “helping” Indians. But I did witness a whole bunch of white kids writing this stuff down in their notebooks. They will move on and get their degrees in areas such as native studies, thereby becoming experts (to some) on Native people and their issues and are now armed with “the facts.” This is a mainstream post secondary institution and I witnessed firsthand the perpetuation of a lie (misinformation might be a more politically correct term). But it’s a very, very powerful and weighted subject either in a person’s personal experience at a residential school or those who exhibit complete animosity and disdain at even hearing about the issue. I’m not worried that this issue/story will disappear any time soon and it needs much more exploration and light brought to it (which it will). I will move on.

Another time, I spoke with a highly educated and traditionally aware Indian woman and we talked about the etymology, or history of certain words in our respective languages. I’ve always dug our (hers and my) philosophical and theoretical exchanges and on a particular night we were speaking of justice, balance, good and evil and their manifestation, war and all the rest. Eventually she used words to the effect: - I guess, in the old days, if someone had turned away so completely from the tribal values of the day – they need to be punished, sometimes executed. –

To this I responded, “I see, so you believe that’s how it was for your people?”

She looked at me and asked: “Are you telling me Cree people NEVER did any of those things, weren't abusers?”

I said: “Obviously, after a certain period in history, but prior to that…I doubt it.”

She asked: “You’re people didn’t abuse each other before contact?”

"Not to that degree, not like that. I’m certain there was aberrant behavior which was dealt with (strictly, I might add) but the specific kind of abuse you’re speaking of? – I don’t think so. We learned that…or it was a result of being overwhelmed emotionally, collectively…one doesn’t expect that a healthy person is going to do things like that, is capable of it. I don’t think Cree people are or were perfect by any means but I believe we were pretty healthy before the arrival. Now I can’t speak for your people just as I take it you are not speaking for all native groups, or Nations, when you say abuse of that type was present, or common. How could you possibly know that?"

"How can you think your people didn’t do those kinds of things?"

The clearest answer I could come up with: THERE WERE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT. At this her expression told me she understood where I was going.

Follow me on this, reader: Something takes place, then it is described, named etc. but what does it mean if there are no words to describe something? My theory is that if there are no words to describe or name something, someone or an event, it doesn’t exist. My theory is that there was a time in my people’s history where types of conduct were unknown to our experience and imagination. That is, behavior so inconceivable, so counter or opposite to the precepts of our nature it just didn’t register (or had yet to) in the consciousness. How can there be words to describe or name something you cannot conceive, imagine or dream of? In our languages the world over we don’t define things that don’t exist. I hope the reader understands what I am explaining. Clearly, there have been rampant and ongoing types of abuse, on and by my people. But at one point in our history, there literally were no words to describe this occurrence. Think about what that could mean. To use another example, at one point, there were no words for jet airplane or the internet. These things had not yet been conceived. To me it’s entirely possible, plausible and likely certain things took place only after an inconceivable, unprecedented and overwhelming confluence of circumstances. It’s the only way they could happen.

The discussion also brought up an issue around protocol. Initially my friend’s assertive tone and her words struck me and I was moved to identify myself and make myself clear. I told my friend that with all due respect, she may very well have known these things about her people but as of that conversation and as a Cree person I was in possession of none of that knowledge. I felt bound to make explicit that I had received no information on the things (facts) she was attributing to other (including my) people from any reliable source and it was not useful for me to simply nod or agree and carry on my way. I calmly asked her. How do you know what you say? Where did you get that information? What was the source? Thankfully my friend understood what I was saying, HOW and WHY I was saying it. In that exchange we deepened our understanding of each other as members of our respective nations and each other as individuals.

Another friend, another conversation, and I am told how this person’s nation had very strict laws/protocols surrounding the fishing of rivers in their traditional area. She indicated to me that she knew of a story wherein two men were executed because they fished more than the allowable limit.

“They were executed?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “When was this?

“A long time ago…I’m not sure but it’s what happened.”

“Where?”

“In the spot we were at today,” she answered, referring to a section among the 2nd largest fresh water salmon run on the planet. And she went on to explain about needing to protect the yearly stocks and how the men had put the entire community in danger through over fishing and there were no exceptions and so on. I ask the reader to imagine how many fish the two men could possibly have taken where it would have put the entire community at risk, and this is back in the day? What were the rest of the fishers doing? Why would they do this? Where did they put all this fish? Capital punishment? How were they killed? *(sigh)…it’s not for me to contradict this person or this story but I admit I am dubious as there were no answers provided beyond sensational facts. But there you have it. I cannot speak with any authority to the authenticity of this story and I don’t share this anecdote to refute what the person shared but rather to indicate how my mind works. My guess is that this story remains active to deliver a message: DON'T OVERFISH! I have a very strong opinion of the humane and civilized laws and customs of my people (note we are of the Plains, a world away for all intents and purposes - a completely different landscape and therefore a completely different psychological and spiritual disposition, for what it’s worth) I personally reject most of these sensationalized, blood thirsty scenarios that many (often times, especially, my own) people love to rally around and that maintain the stoic, fierce type, shit kicker characterizations that have become so deeply entrenched in the collective imagination. Nobody, it seems, is free of this.

I share these different experiences to indicate that we learn from and about each other all the time. Misinformation is perpetuated on such a grand scale as I indicated in my experience in the classroom that, at times, it makes you wonder what use it is in even trying. Only at times though. Most days I have a pretty good bead on the things I experience and the people and places I encounter. To my satisfaction I can verify and support what I believe to be true about my people (or what I think I know *laughs). I can easily regulate my intellectual process and my daily spiritual practice maintains my emotional balance. The rest of my medicine wheel is a work in progress (laughs again). But in all seriousness, this is only one of the ways I assert my Nationhood - my idea of it. To call myself (Nehiyaw) Cree is to take on some responsibility regarding my words, my actions even my prayers (do you realize I am responsible for my thoughts as I prepare food? especially when it is for others). These things are real to me. I met a Cree guy at a reading that was gleefully spouting off to a whole bunch of white people about how back in the day you’d get your nose cut off for this and get an ear cut off for that and blah, blah, blah - torture methods of enemies and on and on and on. The audience loved it but does it honor or indicate the complexity and humanity of our people? Is it true? I tend to think it indulges our basest selves rather than exemplify the qualities of a human being we are endowed with.

This post began on the idea of the power of stories and hopefully it sheds light on how certain perspectives which have little or no basis in truth can become facts. Respectful skepticism, diligence and integrity (or lack of each) is what we each will bring to the exchange.

I realize no one is signing up for Champ’s Take On The World – (As It Really Could Be 101), it would be too outlandish to even consider, so what the hell, I may well just start a blog…hey wait a minute!...

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

I'd Like To Spank The Academy...

Recently I attended a conference hosted by Jeanette Armstrong’s En’owkin Center at Penticton BC. For 3 days, mostly indigenous, academics from an array of disciplines from North America, New Zealand and Europe presented on various aspects of their theory, research and practice. The conference was called Transformation and Praxis and it came just when I needed it.

Typical lecture subjects ranged from forestry, water issues, language and history and generally speaking, the theme or point wasn’t commercial, it was real. I know this is a poor sentence and sounds vague but what I mean is that regardless of the topic or the presenter, most, if not all seminars were decidedly lacking in a commercial bottom line. In fact, it seemed that commerce was often the key factor that hindered much of what most are trying to accomplish in their chosen field. Add to that, the common experience of utter disregard or disrespect for indigenous methodology in the academy was clear. I can’t recall anyone who didn’t experience the same type of hardship within their respective institutions over the fact that Indigenous people don’t seem to get into these fields to exploit but rather to serve their communities (and no - I’m not naïve – I am very aware we have just as many exploiters and money shaker-makers, as any body else but c’mon we’re people too, ya know!). This stood out as the indigenous bottom line for me. I saw mostly PhD’s (or candidates) and master’s scholars detailing their research and their experiences in trying to learn how to help their communities. They want to learn so they can help their people. Universities don’t support this philosophy as it pertains to aboriginal people in any real way (of course some individuals in a particular institution have been supportive but they had to be found, at times in very obscure places around the world but then again that’s what good scholarship is).

For instance, one lecturer detailed her pioneering work in geographical satellite mapping of forest species types, locations and densities. Now the big forestry companies are very keen to utilize this kind of technology and information obviously to maximize their exploitation of this resource. But this individual is trying to use the information to find ways of enacting responsible and real sustainable forestry practice (not the completely inappropriate and misleading industry definition of “sustainable”). She also seeks to collect data in order to prevent industrial forestry practice from occurring near important traditional aboriginal hunting and fishing places and near important river systems and watersheds. Her expertise and knowledge of non-indigenous forestry practice shows clearly that it destroys the health and vitality of aboriginal land and water (eco-systems and bio-regions). As industry now knows, you cannot clear cut a mountainside, then plant small saplings of a cheaper, genetically modified (and often foreign to that area) species and say that the forest will simply grow back in time. Old and moderate growth forests only work because of their unique and abundant density and diversity and inter-related nutrient exchange at points located below tree lines or nearer the forest floor. Add to this the fact that snow, precipitation and its runoff is now completely altered and unfiltered and serves mainly to choke and contaminate any river system or freshwater source that lies below it, not to mention the large scale impact on wildlife that comes with road construction and installation of machinery by the forest industry. Sending a bunch of pot-smoking summer students out there after the fact, planting saplings for minimum wage is not sound, sustainable or ethical forestry practice. - - The presenter wants to identify areas that if forested, will have maximum negative impact on aboriginal people. Industry wants this information in order to build the cheapest roads to get to these very same places. Why does industry not go elsewhere? Because the reason aboriginal people inhabit these areas in the first place is because of its richness and density in natural resources. The ironic fact, aboriginal people have been there for untold thousands of years…but you would never know it, so expertly and deftly has their use of indigenous knowledge and practice been in place. - - So this person is under immense pressure because forestry provides millions to universities in endowments and grants solely for the purpose of accessing more efficient means of industrial scale forestry methods (i.e., to make more money, faster).

Next, our brightest minds must deal with the fact that at that non-indigenous academia is often reluctant to endorse the information we've cited - your sources for information and knowledge need to be cited, this is not the problem, in fact it's good. Though universities and other bodies claim to respect indigenous and “traditional” knowledge, when it comes time to assess or adjudicate material wherein a traditional source (i.e., information or knowledge not found in a liberry or a book) has been cited, the scholar (student, researcher etc) often has an uphill climb in having the work approved, endorsed, sanctioned, certified or accepted. Now some readers at this point will think: well, screw them we don’t’ need…blah, blah, blah…But the people engaged in this struggle are every ounce as committed as anyone else. They take on these challenges with a warrior’s spirit. They actively seek and find those places within and without that need to be found. When necessary, they engage with the oppressor, confront the barrier…and proceed. Research and learn about what Indigenous people have done for themselves in places like Hawaii and New Zealand. Look at the models they have developed for teaching their people their way. It’s very interesting and very powerful.

What’s really powerful is that they can now (indigenous scholars) more frequently and specifically articulate with data this “inter-related or inter-connectedness” that indigenous people have been speaking of since contact. In the past, there were simply linguistic barriers to mutual learning. I am not referring to the concept being new as of contact I am speaking of the effectiveness (or lack of) and difficulty in mutual understanding, based on language.

Vine Deloria Jr., Jeneatte Armstrong, Leroy LittleBear, Hunani Kay- Trask, Jack Forbes are just some of our people who have not compromised their spiritual or cultural selves to reach previously uninhabited places in the academy. And people like Armstrong and LittleBear, each of whom is a fluent speaker of their own nation’s language first, are also more articulate than most people whose first language is English (i.e., white people). What this does is that it gives no place for non-indigenous academia to run. They can no longer blame OUR deficiencies or OUR inabilities…they can only exhibit their unwillingness to see…and they do. Their (silence) is deafening but antiquated ideas and methods are on their way out…all sensible people know this. But just because they bury their heads in the sand doesn’t mean we’re going to…*(sigh)…(I'm so happy).

I mentioned at the top that this conference came along just when I needed it. This was in reference to frequent company i had been keeping that consistently slandered people who chose to pursue goals at universities, colleges and various institutes. If people could have seen the power inherent in stories of the struggle to achieve in the hostile and often lonely halls of academia, one couldn’t help but be inspired. For me I wanted to high five these women (as usual, it is mostly women, doing the hard work…but that’s a topic for another post) because of what they were giving me. Just hearing of their trials and tribulations AND, it must be said, their PROGRESS proved that nothing we do is in vain. I had been letting all these bad vibes sink in about what value he, she, they or it was having and I was slowly starting to give my power away to influential people (Indian lefties, yet…and I am one) and their cult of “the system.” Then creator sends me to this conference and I am restored and my faith and conviction gets stronger. Now more than ever, I see attitude is everything.

For those of a particular or hardcore stance, those who wield culture like a weapon, who have no room for other points of view who, have deemed and judged others (see previous blog on “judgment”) inferior or deficient…thank you for caring enough to share your opinion. We understand you don’t believe approaches such as education or other areas of endeavor (art?) are necessary. But I am so glad to disagree (what’s difference between you and them? They ALSO have god on their side, remember?).

It is necessary and difficult. But it is necessary in the same way we need people (wherever they are) to learn and practice traditional language and ways of knowing. In my own experience I have been to lots and lots of places to learn and find teachings that I now carry but these things were gathered with a respectfully critical process that takes nothing at face value (nothing). It is not helpful (or realistic) to think that only in the country does one have access to their cultural and spiritual influence and power. If that’s true, then most of us are wasting on our time aren’t we? Fundamentalists – beat it! I love my fellow sojourners and spiritual groove locaters and self/spirit makers who have no choice but to seek and find solace, comfort and power in these places in the heart and in the hood. Wouldn’t everybody love to have an island, cottage or home (a home, home on the rez) to retreat to a place to go to replenish? But we make do and some of us do the best we can for ourselves and each other. I see the willingness to engage at every level in every field and in every way that is meaningful and it’s powerful also. It is in keeping with traditional values I’ll have the reader know.

In fact, I would contend that most of these presenters I wrote about are solidly immersed in a traditional, spiritual and/or cultural identity and practice. You’d have to be to make it in the hostile environment of “higher learning” (or amid the urban wilderness) while hanging on your soul.

These scholars are working tirelessly to better themselves and their lives, and their communities. In the process they are creating space in these institutions and the larger society for their people to follow and contributing to a body of knowledge useful for a type of student after them. Eventually we will cite our own people in our work and in our scholarship and it will not be questioned. The idea is that down the road we have our own institutions, with our own curriculum, based on our own knowledge, values and philosophies and practices based on our own ideas of what is appropriate and most useful to our people.

We have a long way to go but what alternative is there? The only way to get through…is to get through.

Two Indians stood at the bottom of a mountain, each needing to be at the top by sundown. The one Indian started off and looked behind him to see the other sit down and bow his head. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’ll never make it in time…I am praying hard the Creator gives me wings.”
“Good idea,” said the other, “but I think I’m going to head out and pray along the way.”

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing