you changed 

yeah, i did. i got better and stepped into my power and stayed in my lane and really they just hate to see a fucking girl boss winning don’t they?  some people would rather you be miserable because misery loves company and people love acting like crabs in a bucket. 

some people want you broken because they’re broken and it helps them feel less alone. some people see someone stepping into the unknown and they feel left behind and it makes them nervous, anxious. 

it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay. 

it’s not really my business what people say about me behind my back, that’s their cross to bear, their load to carry, heavy words and heavier thoughts, beasts of burden all. 

i cant hear you over the sound of the drums on my path. i cant hear you over the sound of gunfire in my blood. cant hear you over the sound of a shitty truck driving full speed on the highway and i am rattlesnake and roadway. 

i got better. clawed my way through, tore my clothes and ripped my hair and broke all my nails but here i am. i crawled out of sweatlodge a year ago and haven’t looked back and some people just won’t understand but i left behind the girl i was in the womb of the sacred earth mother and came out as a woman. 

stopped wearing makeup

stopped shaving

stopped centering men

stopped taking burdens that aren’t mine

stopped being desperate for friendship

stopped accepting crumbs when i paid for a meal

stopped tolerating

stopped

a woman standing in her power and her grief and her rage scares those who are weak of spirit and my lineage survived the war and the reservation and the bottle and ive survived worse than a community theatre who took me for-granted. so fuck them. i don’t darken doorsteps of places who have to have meetings about if id be allowed to come there, debating my humanity like some kind of bureaucratic weather report. 

i don’t go where im not wanted and i don’t beg people for friendship. 

you can take me as i am or get the fuck out. 

i survived the hospital room where my father died of the fucking flu. 

i survived a man trying to kill me and i faced him down and prepared to go down like a warrior and he died and i didnt. warrior is in my blood. 

im no expert im still learning and im just a student in this forever academy of learning but i walk my best in my tallest shoes to come through in a good way with good intentions. 

forgive me if you can or dont. 

i havent always been this way and im sorry i didnt always walk tall or come with my best. i was sick but im better now. 

i cant wait for the things to come, to dance and grieve and live life tall for those who came before who couldn’t. 

you changed, they say. 

yes i did. 

i had no choice, it was change or die. 

goonies never say die. 

and what do we say to the god of death?

not today. 

not today. 

o death. o death. 

won’t you spare me over for another year?

i keep death guessing. 

and you can keep fucking guessing too. 

and i will howl to the heavens and scratch this manifesto on a truck stop mirror with turquoise rings on my fingers and blood under my nails and the ancestral woman’s song on my lips. 

o, but, great coyote, who am i?

be gentle with me. 

there is an old anishinaabe legend of how the birch tree got its black marks.

i will tell you as it was told to me.

many many years ago, when the earth was still young, in a time that could be called the dream time or the time before time, it was very cold and the world was freezing. nanaboozho lived with his grandmother in a little hut and it was terribly cold. grandmother told him of the great thunderbird village in lands to the west where they were always toasty and warm. nanboozho decided one day to go and visit the great thunderbirds, the crackling sky gods who emitted fire and lightning from their feathers and claws. nanaboozho disguised himself as a tiny rabbit, a wabooz, and hopped his way to the home of the thunderbirds, which was toasty and warm.

he came to their village and plead with them to allow him to warm himself by their great fire. the thunderbirds agreed, taking pity on the small rabbit. that night, when the thunderbirds slept, nanaboozho snuck to the fire and rolled around in it and caught all of his fur on fire and quickly fled from the thunderbird village, racing through the forest to bring fire back to his grandmother, to the freezing village. the thunderbirds awoke and enraged, rushed to pursue the little rabbit, knowing they had been tricked.

the thunderbirds took to the sky, screeching their rage and threw lightning at nanaboozho who fled as fast as his little legs could carry him.

“help! naadmawshin!!” he called into the forest and it was the proud birch trees with their pure white bark that answered him.

“come nanaboozho, hide under us and we will keep you safe”

and nanaboozho took shelter under the branches of the birch trees as the thunderbirds rained fire from above scorching the pure white bark of the birch.

the thunderbirds eventually tired of their pursuit because throwing fire is hungry work and they retreated back to their village.

nanaboozho brought fire back to his grandmother and to the people so they could warm themselves. and from then on, the birch trees have carried those scorch marks from the thunderbirds, a reminder of what they gave to shelter a little rabbit and to give warmth to the people.

sometimes, i think about this story, because i think about scars and i think about the ones we carry, some of us, memories of a great battle, but sometimes the battle is one we fight within ourselves.

lunch time thrift break. my favourite thrift shop is right around the corner from my work and i find myself there often over lunch break, visiting with the older ladies who run the shop. 

the shop is my favourite because everything is pretty cheap and the finds are pretty good. i can find antiques and old bones and fully beaded moccasins and belts and my favourite vintage dress. ive found leather and crystals and a frame someone made in 1881. 

restless and troubled, as i often am, i peruse racks and listen to music. i find a cool kleenex box cover for my work and some shells.  i visit with the older ladies and page through books and listen to old imchibeat tracks and i think about death and then i see a brand new rack of clothes and there they are. the perfect pair of jeans. 

high waisted and pleated, cut for a smaller waist and a big juicy ass, i know they will fit me. i try them on under my skirt as an older lady watches me and i cant tell if shes eyeing my tattoos or hairy legs but i dont give a fuck. the jeans fit perfect and i am in awe that i wont even have to hem them to fit my short little legs. i feel like i should buy a lottery ticket. all women know the infinite sisyphean struggle to find jeans that fit and i find my perfect pair for $6 on a random lunch break like magic. 

the last time i found jeans like this i shared a photo online with my now dead friend and she called me a babe and laughed about my struggle to find jeans that can accommodate an ass like mine. she had real big boobs and had the same problem just in a different location i guess. the joys of trying to fit a beautiful wild body into off the rack garments. fuck that noise. 

i buy some antique jewelry at the thrift shop too, a tiny gold cross and this antique edwardian sun brooch. i think of my dead friend and hold the sun in a sweaty palm. thrifted jeans and thrifted gold. 

i wash the jeans and research the brand and it says pairs online start at $170 a pair. that’s a lot of cash for jeans i guess so i feel pretty lucky. i wear them the next day and lots of girls compliment my jeans and my outfit. a guy yells “nice ass” from his car as i walk to work. 

i’m all pumped up sitting at my desk typing reports, my fingers tracing the thrift store gold cross from time to time. 

a little piece of faith, but fuck the wood and the blood, i want it in gold wearing nice ass thrift shop jeans. 

i look just like the pretty downtown girls but for a fraction of the cost. bargain basement. 

a shapeshifter in thrift store gold, thrift store jeans. 

a shapeshifter with a nice ass. 

big teeth dripping blood under my vintage cowboy hat. 

everybody wants my attention

everybody’s got something to sell

a religious song written by bob dylan but i prefer the 16 horsepower version. its how i feel currently about so much. 

i grew up on the internet and ive been on it for more years now than i havent been and over the past few years ive began the difficult process of leaving a lot of it behind. im far from some kind of neo luddite but i dislike the hold the internet has on me.  i dislike social media and the need to perform for it. hot take culture, memes, boobs and butt, fitness this, fitness that, healing always healing, healing from healing, and it’s all this ego driven hell. do i look hot, who watched my story, is my work worth anything, maybe i should livestream, maybe i should post more, maybe i should post less, maybe i should get a green juice or join a fitness club or book club or hate follow that group of girls i cant stand. 

everybody wants my attention

everybody’s got something to sell

there’s that guy i used to like and oh what’s he posted now some stupid ass selfie and he’s shirtless again surprise and i used to think maybe he got it but now his whole vibe seems cheap and commercialized and was it always that way or was i just blind. 

i haven’t been posting and i don’t know if i like it or not, does it feel foreign or not, do i feel better or not?  

i sit and do my beadwork and drink my tea and i can’t regulate my grief stricken heart so i just keep sewing, bead by bead. 

women’s work, women’s grief. 

i am not cut out for the algorithm. 

at least this beadwork hat is gonna look pretty cool.