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A Few More Sentences - 02
Manidoo-Giizisoons (Little Spirit Moon) Edition
Boozhoo, indinawemaaganidog! Aaniin! That is to say hello, all of my relatives! Happy New Year! Welcome to the
FIFTH EVER PAID SUBSCRIBER ONLY EDITION! of An Irritable Métis, and the second edition of the monthly sentences. That’s where I post my daily, single sentences for the month, based on the practice that ultimately led to my first book, One-Sentence Journal, back in 2018. This post (and every subsequent one to this theme, which will arrive on or around the first of every month), as mentioned, is for paid subscribers only. If you’re someone who really digs this newsletter but just can’t add more expense to your existence, I get it. Just contact me and let me know, no questions asked, and I’ll hook you up. I want a community here, not customers. Otherwise, if you’ve been on the fence, here’s your chance….
2022_1201: Overnight snow turns Council Grove otherworldly.
2022_1202: On a day where the temperature returns to plunging, a great blue heron stands in a field, shoulders hunched, in a posture that grumbles, “Fuck this….”
2022_1203: Chasing the sun westward on snowshoes.
2022_1204: The days sometimes pass all too quickly, even when, particularly when, they are deliciously slow.
2022_1205: On a day burdened by a flurry of disappointing cancellations, email rejections, and assorted mild irritations, the plunge into complete surliness is averted with leather gloves thudding into a swinging bag the size of an obnoxious torso, and the luminous sweat and breathlessness that accompanies it.
2022_1206: The big field is divided by inhabitants into something like neighborhoods: one where the great blue heron is resolutely post-holing through the snow; one where dozens of Canada geese are bedded down in rag-tag arrangement; one where the deer congregate both prone and upright, with a few of the more intrepid ones crossing over into new communities; and finally, like at the spot where the road ends at a gate because the developer lost right-of-way, an eagle tears at something on the ground while a number of magpies and crows keep a respectful distance waiting for possible meaty scraps.
2022_1207: A heap of bright red maple leaves, limp and thawed in the slushy, muddy muck of the roadside, looks like the churned-up horror of an unidentifiable kill site.
2022_1208: The last full moon of the year hangs over North Reserve so brightly that I dream of how people might interact if we could just kill the obnoxious neon glow from gross big box stores and traffic lights, while more than a couple score others wait seething in their cars, exhaust huffing out into the cold night, in an endless queue at the new Chik-fil-a drive-thru, spiritually shoveling more don’t-give-a-fucks onto the burning pyre of our miraculous world.
2022_1209: A not unexpected wrecking ball of bad news splinters the rickety scaffolding of my emotions and sends me racing to the gym – and the heavy bag hanging there – like a gasping sting victim clawing for an epi pen.
2022_1210: Is my frozen cherry tree shivering, or is it just the breeze?
2022_1211: A surprise snowstorm arrives in time for a saunter at the river where a kingfisher, his silhouette remarkable and pronounced against the snowy skeleton branches of the willows he perches in, plunges into the current for a fish.
2022_1212: The slain relative half-buried in a pile of crusty snow on the roadside deserves so much better from all of us.
2022_1213: Covid claims another band practice.
2022_1214: Every story absorbed from the front edge of my unreliable plastic seat.
2022_1215: A wet and smelly dog exhausted in the aftermath of a snowy ramble.
2022_1216: An occasion when daring to take coffee in public starts to feel like a public performance.
2022_1217: Chasing stories written in deep snow.
2022_1219: Sketched against a gray sky, Migizi floats above the Costco parking lot the final Monday before Christmas and I can only dream what baffled thoughts occupy his perception of what we’ve become.
2022_1220: A bitter storm from out of Siberia and the Yukon bears down on all of us south of the Medicine Line and nothing seems so perfectly, gloriously winter.
2022_1221: As if summoned by tribute from candles and bonfires, the stars come out to celebrate the longest, coldest night of the year.
2022_1222: A level of home-based shiftlessness, battened down against the cold, that feels like the holiday has already arrived.
2022_1223: No more groanings and creakings means that maybe, just maybe, the entire house may not split in two from the cold.
2022_1224: Catching up with family while crunching through two plates of homemade tacos, complete with a side of nachos.
2022_1225: A white, cold Christmas.
2022_1226: An early drive into town for car repairs teaches me that sometimes even the folks who crank wrenches get the occasional federal make-up holiday off.
2022_1227: Back to the shop to eat free popcorn, drink terrible coffee, and huff tire rubber all day.
2022_1228: A mostly-musical evening among friends, and me wondering what to do not so much with my hands but my face.
2022_1229: No waxing moon, but a suspicious cloud with a big bright spot in the center of it makes one wonder what it might be concealing.
2022_1230: Be wary, this being avalanche season, that what has seemed glorious and beautiful all day may even now begin to slide out from under you.
2022_1231: My time outside for the year closes just above freezing, waxing moon in Aries bright in a near cloudless sky, coyotes singing in the field, and great-horned owls calling from ponderosa to cottonwood and back.