suburb baby

by waaseyaa'sin christine sy


think of all the crap of such a thing and throw in a porsche, audi, mansions and adults who promote white supremacist heteropatriachy through the perfect smiling nuclear families of variable shades of rich race, with teenagers who order pizzas to school for an after-school snack using their own credit cards and think the world revolves around girl belly-buttons (it does) and them around boys and then


hit the trail for a dusk trek and be confronted with magic. held accountable by


bunnies with white tails hopping across deep, thick, lush green grasses and the deer don’t care because magic bunnies mostly but really it’s because


they’ve got their eyes on you. all, except one, over there. the outlier. all twelve wide open big brown eyes (and long, beautiful eyelashes that curl perfectly, as you recall) and twelve big ears, too, all on you




what an audience


you are, stopped in your treks and call in the silence, deep inhale, slow exhale. wait


for it.


the moment that always comes. the moment when curiosity ends and the deer figure out who you are and flip up their tail. run


away. a way to make this not happen is trust it if it does. it’s meant to be, a(ny)way. and take another inhale and keep waiting, keep recognizing each other, those deer and you in twilight. exhale, breathe, and trust that the moment is here. live in it. enjoy it. those deer are not going anywhere. at this point they’re more interested in their bellies than you, so enjoy it. watch their tails sway knowing you are standing right there watching them. there will be no warnings, for now.


farm deer. trusting deer. stupid deer. nogoodforhuntingdeer.


tranquil, a wise ishkiniigikawe whispers.

and the other thing about suburb living in farm country is wide open nights with little light pollution = stars. anangwan. star-gazing. grazing. munching on that medicine stuff.

and frogs.

brown fur against lush green, vibrating mud and cold water on wet backs, and deep black velvet blue with glistening dots. remnants & future pieces of each of us, up there, in the sky.


today i read something so beautiful. it bundlded things up for me, tightened them up like pulling down on a row of lake superior green beads on purple velvet or crimson on brain-tanned hide and seeing them lay nice and close together, no space between them, no outlier bead or twisted bead, just there nice and snug and you know it’s going to be that way as you’re pulling the thread…you can feel that perfect is on its way through by the way the thread glides through the material, slides against the tips of your fingers, the tension and the way the beads feel moving. it all happens so quick but you know the perfect is about to happen when you feel it.

that’s how it felt reading this thing today and it’s how it felt being out there with the deer, thinking about the green of the peeper vibration in rippling dark water and the velvety blue night coming:

“…the environment is the knowledge…” ~Peter, co-researcher to Shawn Wilson, in Research is Ceremony, 86.

this makes perfect sense. the knowledge of life is already there. no wonder it feels so damn good. it’s like walking into, being welcomed into a billion years of knowledge generation that works and works well. it’s like being welcomed, embraced by brilliance, every single time. it’s like being loved and being loved well.


suburbs are babies. their knowledge is powerful yet so young. un-wise. that’s what the problem is.