A Few More Sentences – 23
Waatebagaa-giizis (Leaves Turning Moon) Edition
Boozhoo, indinawemaaganidog! Aaniin! That is to say hello, all of my relatives! Welcome to another edition of An Irritable Métis. In this case, I am happy to present the TWENTY-THIRD EDITION! of the monthly sentences. Most of these are from the road, as I was gone a lot this past month.
For those of you new here this monthly edition, where I post the daily, single sentences that I’ve accumulated for the month-just-ended, is based on the practice that ultimately led to my first book, One-Sentence Journal, back in 2018.
It’s a simple practice and fulfilling … and also maybe not so simple as it may seem. Regardless, the practice is excellent training for paying attention to the small moments of my life, and I enjoy sharing those moments here. As always, I deeply appreciate your time and attention. If you feel compelled to offer up a few of your own observations in the comments, I would love to see them.
I said this last month and I’ll say it again this month: all the time behind the wheel lately out promoting Becoming Little Shell has had me in almost constant reflection on this idea of being a full-time writer and what is really making it work. I’ll likely write more on this subject, but it has become clear to me – based on the people showing up for events, and where the bulk of book sales seem to be coming from – that this newsletter has been the key to whatever success has come in the wake of its release. More than “important” reviews in “important” publications, mentions in this place or that, whatever … this newsletter – all of you – are really making it happen. My gratitude overflows. I will never underestimate what the interactions here mean and I don’t take it lightly, even if I’m wildly inconsistent in when I publish. I’m pretty sure the bulk of you who have been here a while understand. I’ve also been very pleased to meet so many of you in person over the last couple weeks and I hope that continues. As things loosen up just a smidge I’m going to do my best to bend more attention to this space.
If you enjoy these monthly sentences, or you enjoy anything about this newsletter, please consider a paid subscription. Your support is more important than ever….
2024_0901: Pulled off the interstate into a shady spot at the bottom of a No Services exit ramp for a phone interview, I’m pleased to find a spirited celebration of a favorite writer long gone emerge in conversation from the relentless tedium of talking about myself.
2024_0902: Wake up, unpack, do laundry, delete unread emails and repack to return to the road tomorrow.
2024_0903: A vote on “Should all book events include cake?” would get a hearty “Yea!” from me.
2024_0904: The North Cascades Scenic Highway is tremendous and otherworldly, even swirling with traces of wildfire smoke.
2024_0905: In the depths of a Seattle parking garage a bloody trail leads to a wad of gore-saturated clothing and band-aid wrappers in a stairwell that suggests a story more grim than I want to attempt to guess.
2024_0906: My kingdom for a cabin atop a hill overlooking a strait accessible only by ferry.
2024_0907: The reunion is tearful and beautiful.
2024_0908: Sunny and warm in Portland, it is a day off worth a full embrace.
2024_0909: Taking to my nest in a flop near the airport at the collapsing end of a long and wonderful day, I could reflect happily on my joy at spending time with a good friend I haven’t seen in ages, or the tremendous turnout in a hallowed bookstore to celebrate my book, but instead this final contented sigh to put the day to bed will be in recognition of the delicious Reggie-and-hashbrowns I wrecked myself with for breakfast.
2024_0910: In a day full of sunny geographical highlights the true lingering pleasure comes from the lovely relatives I spent a few minutes with on the Warm Springs Reservation.
2024_0911: Light sprinkle of rain to accompany the campfire smell of morning in Oregon.
2024_0912: The cabin I’ve been assigned is called “Dickenson,” certainly for Emily, but I will take my inspiration from Bruce.1
2024_0913: A short time under Nookomis and all her solace to put an end to a grueling day.
2024_0914: A chance encounter at the gas pumps at the Town Pump in Columbus, MT, is a reminder for why I’m out here doing this in the first place.
2024_0915: The teeth grinding effort to cram several days of chores between the holy bookends of a single sabbath.
2024_0916: So much rain unloading from the sky onto Chapel Hill.
2024_0917: After months of anticipation to get after it in this city I am most deeply impacted by the excellence of the beard trim I received in a back alley shop just off Franklin Street mere blocks from the Tarheel campus.
2024_0918: Like a soft body inside a wagon being mashed into shapelessness by the application of field stones, it’s a wonder the earth doesn’t simply succumb to the weight of New York City.
2024_0919: One week ago it was a cabin at a wealth-dripping enclave named for Emily Dickenson and today it is a travel oasis on the New Jersey turnpike named for Walt Whitman and I’m wondering who the next poet will be to earn such undignified exploitation.2
2024_0920: Scruffy dude day drinking at the Galaxy Diner in Richmond assumes that because of my grayness and my ponytail I must be a Grateful Dead fan and I was nearly compelled to commence with the fisticuffs but instead I countered, “No, man, I’m a KISS guy.”
2024_0921: Forced to relent to a background check when I am not the one who has sought training in murder and imagined it as any kind of service.
2024_0922: More than ten years since the last switch was thrown and I can’t imagine ever being comfortable in approaching the old mill site in the depth of night and encountering utter darkness where it once lit up this chunk of the entire valley.
2024_0923: It was a cruel wind that raged through here those several weeks ago and carried chunks of my heart away with it.
2024_0924: Waiting for the ring from a number I dialed (that word an anachronism itself!) my ear was pierced by the screech and static indicating a fax machine and for the life of me I can’t remember the last time I intentionally made such a connection.
2024_0925: In one text arrives a single revelation that answers so many questions that I am rendered weak-kneed and practically hyperventilating.
2024_0926: Four people out of the sixty members from my tribal book club show up for the discussion of BLS and I’m not going to sugarcoat it: the disappointment was gut-wrenching and a fire alarm magnification of all the fears I’ve had from the beginning about Little Shell interest in this story.
2024_0927: A best effort not to waste an opportunity to talk my people’s story in front of a crowd of a couple three hundred of the actually interested.
2024_0928: The greatest risk at a conference the day after delivering a keynote many people want to talk to me about is waiting too long to attempt to head across a giant crowded ballroom to the restrooms.
2024_0929: Thinking of my friends in the battered Southeast while visiting the local storm carnage at Maclay Flat.
2024_0930: Storms rage, trees stagger and crack, rivers surge, and all most of us can do is cling to something familiar in an effort to keep afloat.
"Scream for me, Long Beach!”
Perhaps a rarely-serviced pit toilet at Cree Crossing dubbed “The La Tray”?
I so enjoy being on the road with you, one sentence at a time.
"From a chilly porch, first light spreads like love across the land…"
Sobering to see Chief Seattle's grave and heartening to remember him.
All the best to you and your beloveds.