A Few More Sentences – 04
Namebini-giizis (Sucker Fish Moon) Edition
Boozhoo, indinawemaaganidog! Aaniin! That is to say hello, all of my relatives! Welcome to the SEVENTH EVER PAID SUBSCRIBER ONLY EDITION! of An Irritable Métis, and the fourth edition of the monthly sentences. That’s where I post my daily, single sentences for the previous 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. This edition also features the FIRST EVER AUDIO INCLUSION! I experimented with recording a reading of these lines, complete with ambient firepit sound and neighborhood noises. That’s after the paywall, of course, so….
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.
February, 2023
2023_0201: The Road North begins early as ever but at long last the shiftless light begins to rise with me.
2023_0202: Despite a general phobia of small talk, I will never not enjoy spontaneous winter “How are the roads?” conversations initiated by strangers.
2023_0203: Migizi cuts a regal shape high atop a bare-branched cottonwood, bringing glory even to the neighboring grove of carefully-rowed shit poplars.
2023_0204: Tiny tracks traverse Waterworks Hill.
2023_0205: I wish I could wax to my full glow on such a consistent schedule.
2023_0206: Out after 9pm on a Monday and I didn’t even turn into a pumpkin.
2023_0207: Reflecting on the ubiquity of whiteness in almost every aspect of all the joys of my earlier years.
2023_0208: A shimmering blanket of stars waits patiently for Nookomis to join them.
2023_0209: There are moments in this world so beautiful they hardly seem real.
2023_0210: Complete with spirited songs, a small gathering of red-winged blackbirds convenes outside my window.
2023_0211: Is it possible for a cookie to be TOO sweet? he wonders, taking another bite for research purposes.
2023_0212: Millions crowd indoors staring at electric light beamed into their eyeholes while I sit outside in the darkness, headed tilted back, with enough appreciation for the entirety of the night sky to make up for all of us.
2023_0213: Out in the woods before sunrise, Nookomis reflects icy light through the cracks in the overstory.
2023_0214: Ceding the pre-dawn public trails in surrender to all the people who let their dogs shit all over them by day.
2023_0215: Soaking up sunlight from a camp chair on the front porch outside the entrance of the lair while the annoying clumps of evidence of yet more terrible dog owners simmer in the false spring air.
2023_0216: Reflecting on the looming real world version of a science fiction one reveled in the previous night and having uncomfortable second thoughts about my amusement.
2023_0217: I hope my enthusiasm is enjoying a vacation away with the sun, since neither seemed to show up today.
2023_0218: Hiking in less than optimal weather conditions leads to that elusive more wonderful than usual experience.
2023_0219: Reading about the horrific cobalt mines and the human and non-human cost to bring the technology that delivers these words to the eyes of most people who will read them and feeling deeply, shamefully, culpable.
2023_0220: I’m startled at my indignation over being hassled on an alleged holiday I couldn’t possibly care less about, but if the feds and bankers aren’t working, why should any of the rest of us be assumed to be?
2023_0221: In a span of two shocking hours winter crashes spring’s party with vicious intent.
2023_0222: Bitter cold and a cruel wind at 10pm but the night sky makes up for it.
2023_0223: A left turn and thirty minutes extra driving to see the Missions bathed in perfect midday light.
2023_0224: The wind and cold relent and 16° feels balmy.
2023_0225: Ice-covered baseball fields don’t make for the most magical of vistas but the snowy mountain panorama under a startling blue sky more than makes up for it.
2023_0226: It’s the season where, if not for the leavings of the companions of the typically-negligent average Missoula dog walker, the only terrain to walk on at Council Grove would be ice.
2023_0227: Gazing at Nookomis through the shroud of a high mist, the coyotes in the next field holler to remind me that today I saw not one but two of the year’s first robins poking around for bugs in the rocks and sand at the Clark Fork River’s edge.
2023_0228: So many will celebrate the closing of this month, but given the stirrings of spring, the farewell I bid will be a fond one.
Beside the Fire
Here’s the effort toward reading these lines. Let me know if you think you’d like more occasional audio and I’ll consider how to upgrade the fidelity (and I should have paid attention to the output volume, but oh, well)….
Some Reminders
Still taking registrations for the following (I think):
April: Rewilding Bodies, Rewilding Writing via Zoom, register HERE
May: Poetry as Spiritual Practice, In Person in YNP!, register HERE
July: Good Ancestors with the Freeflow Institute on the Missouri!, register HERE
Finally, you may apply for Freeflow Scholarships by clicking HERE
I particularly love it when Irritable Readers participate in these things.
I'm taping this to my mirror, as a reminder of the imperative::
2023_0205: I wish I could wax to my full glow on such a consistent schedule
**
Also, I'm glad to see your mention of the redwing blackbirds. My neighbors seem to feel they are here too early (not so! They love cattails and corn field stubble emerging from the snow!) Their buzzy chirp reassures me astronomical spring is on its way.
The audio version really works. The crackling of the fire is lovely. 🔥 (I don't try hard enough not to be pissed off at all the people who don't pick up their dog leavings, but maybe it's they who don't try hard enough.)