Time Warp

These are writings from earlier in my life, that I include for the permanent archive

My 44 Year Old Hands

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25 years this blog has weathered space and time and it was offline for a couple years with no backup. Thanks to an older backup XML file and the Wayback Machine, I’ve been able to restore the original journal that spans a quarter century of my life. This poem is a time warp from the poem I wrote, which is in the archives, titled: My 22 Year Old Hands…

My 44 Year Old Hands

These are my 44-year-old hands.

Desert hands.

Sun-cured. Split. Salted with years.

They don’t move fast anymore,

but they move like water in a dry wash —

only when it matters.

There are canyons in the knuckles now,

thin arroyo lines where old grief carved through

and never quite washed smooth.

The bones creak like truck springs on a washboard road.

Weather talks through them.

These hands have gripped a steering wheel at 2 a.m.,

held a camera like a compass,

picked through rusted towns and shuttered doors,

lifted stones just to see what lives beneath.

They’ve bled on sandstone.

They’ve shaken with anger and mercy.

They’ve held people like fragile relics

and buried things that never came back.

I don’t use them to reach for everything anymore.

The desert taught them restraint —

you carry only what you need

or the road strips you clean.

Now they know the feel of wind,

of heat that hums in metal,

of prayers sent up with dust devils

instead of pews.

My 44-year-old hands aren’t pretty.

They’re honest.

They tremble less from wanting

and more from remembering.

And when I finally lay them down —

sand-cold, still,

done —

I hope the earth knows them,

like a long-lost stone

rolled back into its riverbed,

and trusts

that they tried to hold this world

without breaking it.

by Nathan Arizona

Related: Braffits Creek, A Thread in the Great Basin | Sonoran Spring with the White Wings

Western Culture & White Privilege

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The majority of Americans or European Americans enjoy this little thing called, White Privilege. I will call it Wasicu Privilege or Colonial Privilege. Anglo Americans are all super privileged because we are on the receiving end, as recipients, of a centuries old unjust and illegal occupation – enjoying the fruits of our labors in the Stolen Lands of First Nations! The are still here, surviving and still fighting for a real voice in that system which gives them no actual representation in 2020. That is privilege, my friends! That’s the truth as I see it in YOUR Empire of Lies and Denials that continue to benefit YOU. Welcome to the same old America!

The Ghosts of Braffits Creek

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I spent a day in the silence of our ranch, reliving some those experiences that still lurk on the outer edges of time and space. A supernatural wind howled and groaned, pushing cloudships across blue sky, and causing the empty ranch house to creak. Alone, I felt an intense euphoria as if something from the deep hills had come to pay me a visit! There’s a canyon nearby, Win Canyon, and Braffits Creek trickles down the left fork. The brush and undergrowth chokes the creek bottom, all the way up into the aspen and pine forests above. Braffits Creek may not seem like much, but to our family, it is somewhat sacred. We have stories that originate from there; even I have had personal experiences while hiking and exploring the area.

Braffits Creek is truly a strange place… My uncle and I came out of there late one summer night, with experiences that are hard to describe, like a child’s footprint in the middle of a mud bar near the creek, or the crazy laughter of an unknown animal rushing through the dense bushes. How do you describe those experiences? Will folks ever believe? In so many way, I’ve allowed those amazing experiences to fade into history.

Heart of the Great Basin

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The stars stand bold against trees. The fire is dancing. The smoke drifts in my direction and soaks into my skin. This is a quiet moment in the Great Basin; where the little people roam the night. These individuals are knee tall. They move through the juniper mountains like ants. I can hear their whisperings, as they work in busy networks… preparing for what may come this way, someday… The thunder storms of summer claim these valleys and the thunderheads are in control. Bolts of lightning draw near, and slam the earth. At night the sky seems to clear, but the storms are like power houses, and linger late into the night.

You have to be careful of the little people. They are there. As I search up winding canyons, what surprises may be waiting? This is the middle of nowhere, which is a place for the remote few of us that desire such isolation. The wasteland may not seem like much to a lot of people, but they are afraid of it, and they hide in great cities. But when I visit their cities, I feel really lonely. When I journey out into the wild, it feels like I’m going home every time.

Going down dirt roads, my car eats the gravel. The dust comes in through the windows. I breathe the dirt road into my lungs, and the dust collects in the jungle of my scalp. Sage Brush, tall as trees, grows along the road and I love the smell of sage after a fresh cloud burst. Sometimes, when I’m driving across basin valleys late at night, I imagine those little people roaming around in the eternal hills. I cannot stop thinking about the mysteries of the rolling, Juniper-covered hills.

In my desert camp, I watch the fading sunset burn the low rising ridges and basin hills. Crowded Junipers greet the setting sun. Clouds ignite in orange, pink, red, and maroon, then purple. All colors silently fade without a noise, as the crickets serenade. Coyotes howl in the distance; thunder sounds somewhere far, far away. The stars come out like bold specks against the dark earth. It is not an evil dark, but a pure black darkness that haunts my imagination. It has provided many sleepless dreams.

Dreaming of the Afterlife

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A boy sat outside the village
looking at the grave yard at the mesa’s edge.
“What ever happened to the dead?” he pondered.
“Are they living some where else far away?”

Skeletons walking around after
the day turns to night
inspires the boy to dream of
the darkness and deepness of rivers.

“Are the dead living somewhere else?”
Out on the mesa edge he prays every morning.
He prays, waiting for the sun to come up;
to come over and talk to him.

Every night, he dreams of the
medicine that will make him dead.
He wants to go see the corpse house. Please come.
The sound is making him old.
His dream for the crimson light is fading.

“Poem inspired from a Hopi story.”

The Early Morning

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dark rain clouds
wander the blue sky
making the dream come
alive a vision of the
land singing

Then cries the raven
from its hollow in the
knarled tree
that twists its branches
into the ancient wind

Thunder echoes way across
the desert yonder
farther than
the eyes can see

The black rock
was the blood of
that ancient beast
that was slain so
long ago

the locust begin buzzing
and an eagle heralds the dawn
when that sun peaks
up over the rim of mountains
the clouds catch
pink-red rays

The old man pulls up his
trousers because
of no suspenders. He laughs
out with his diabetic belly
and sings of how he has
“Noassatall disease”

The grand kids pile out of
the truck, hollering and
shouting as grandpa sticks
his false teeth back in

while heavens above are glistening
and the happy meadow lark sings of
a beautiful new day

Changes

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I am wondering through what beauty is left…

There is hardly a place to go
where man has not intruded.
Everything is changing.
I dream of what happened long ago.
What was Earth like then?
There is a divine power today,
not all is gone.

I believe that the sky
and the landscape will change.
People will have no part in it,
if they are not worthy.

Strange things come to me on the wind.
The sun in this quiet world is talking to me.
The Earth is helping me dream too.
The ravens are excited, and chatter
the news around in their little circles.
The desert is waking up,
and the ocean of silence is telling me.

So I have learned…

Voices of the Past

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“The mountains are the last things that are remaining old and undisturbed, but even now we are building things into them. I still can go in them, camp out and watch the stars; sleep and dream in the night by an old fire; and wonder some where else other than this realm of confusion. It truly is something simple, easy, and very righteous. It is being alone and hearing the voices of the past…”

I composed this in my late teens, around the time I turned eighteen and was graduating from high school. You could say I was pretty lucky to graduate, considering I sloughed a lot of high school. If it hadn’t been for my mom’s steady motivation, I would’ve might’ve been a drop out. When I turned sixteen I took advantage of having a driver’s license, I spent a lot of free time in the hills. Friends used to go with me a lot, but they soon dwindled and went their seperate ways. I’m passed tweny now and the years are starting to slip by… Still those places that I love are still there. They sing of the past. I am going to post pieces of writings from earlier in my life, and include them under their own category. You will see them filed under Time Warp… They are quite simple, maybe even repulsive… But that was me six years ago.

There’s An Owl In My Tree

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Avoiding the coyotes and the other things that creep and crawl upon the skin, in the darkness of the earth, he follows the whispers from the mountains. He follows them to the source. He sits there with the rain falling into his hand from the black sky above and cups it carefully, staring into the liquid. His crystal eye is full of passion for the Creative Powers. Where the old trees stand strong and the sandstone is red, he hides in the shadows. Where his bare feet wonder those ageless stone lands, silence bears full witness. This boy travels the desert, talks with the holy wind, and dreams of long ago. Yes, he will go the correct way. He will not die, but will see the vision of the old people.

There are places he goes that refuse to cast darkness about, he seeks the light of the yellow sun above. There, the mystery beings hide in the passing thunder clouds as they climb up over the painted hills.

Plant those tiny seeds in the Earth. She will care for them. She will help them grow. They will turn into the magical forms of life that sustain beauty. Their leaves will take in the wind. The laughter will startle you from the corn stalks in the small field at the edge of the mesa.

This is where a single cloud moves its shadow down off the red mesa into the silent and spacious.

The Ghost hides, but the crooked old woman can see it. Then she calls for her husband to come out and see it. He is also barely able to walk on tired feet. The Sky Father above can change, and the earth protects them. Old woman cries though, and the husband starts to pray. The ghost of the dead then fades away, back to the crossing.

Two worlds under this one sky come together. Show it respect. Do not tread on sacred ground. Back off. Do not trespass where the Creative Power forbids. Stand worthy to dream, and to walk in the beauty of it all, where you are allowed.

The days of today are still beautiful. The Creator is still happy. Forget the new world. The old one has always existed and will forever more. Time will not stop talking. Mother Earth is with the Holy Wind. We were given life from both. They are us! We are them.

Fire of Silence

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The uncanny feelings slither through
this cavernous vista like the lonely fire
that burns within the phantoms and faded
shadows that once had casted forth

The living trance would once long ago
in the ancient times, howl and clamor a
deep declaration from the coyotes in the
flourishing, rolling hills of eternal rest

The emotion of blazing skies
would burn the candled nights beneath
the green, talking cedars.
The clouds shattered by so many ages
without a footstep never even faded.
Truly the soil, and the blue skies of this
ripe sphere was a rest and a haven to give
sanction to uneasy souls when there
was no other warmth.

The compassion and benevolence was given
to their calm and humble hearts.
Only they would know the song, and
it was a chant. This divinity of celestial
brilliance would cast away the evils,
It was a silence where the Creator spread
his spirit over the land. A genuine peace
was upon everything. It was trusted!

Away in the hidden mountains, and
anywhere there was a belief, the
faith was built up.

The Creatures of the forest
did rest and sleep. The fowls raised
their young. All in life was quiet,
and still.

Alone, where the old people of the
Earth traveled, while they lived
close together in this life.
Long ago, into ages of silence.

The Treeman

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 I found this red story with a voice,
that was full of instructions,
given to me by the forest walker.

It is where I bathed in strange
conversations with the tree man.
His mind made of wood, his heart,
full of the place around him.

The forest depths are like his purity.
But I feel his restlessness.
I am headed for his power.
In the darkness my headlights go out.

It is the cabin in the wilderness, I find him.
By a lake where the big beast lives.
Where monsters walk on two legs.
Where the clouds and wind never stop.

The journey down the empty highway,
is the burden I love to carry.

Through this sea of desert, I swim.
Why do I search out the old way?

It so skillfully, and artistically
studies me, and tests me.
It is a warm feeling inside,
when the noon drips off the trees,
while the Sun glistens in the summer,
While I sit there, he comes to me.
He pops out of the bush as a coyote.
He sits on his tail and looks into me.
His ears pointed forward, he sniffs the air.

The old man hides in those eyes,
the ground around him, dark like ravens,
is his throne! The sky palace above glistens too.
Smells of sage and rain linger.

I will not hide.
I will not run.
The shadows creep up from this Earth.
They have no sources. They whisper
and talk. They bring the message.
It is the way he teaches.

The light is somewhere down below,
in the soil, under the roots of
those trees.

In the Forest this dream maker hides,
His tricks are not meant to hurt.
He walks like an old fellow in pain,
yet in the end he turns into A tree.

Blue Sky People

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Out there in the wilderness, where the Blue Sky People wonder, walk, and sleep;
is where the old eternal hills rest. The cold winter passes, and in the summer,
noon drips off ancient trees. Junipers, and pinions cover the Plateaus.
Brush poppers hide, such as the rabbit, the coyote, and the deer.
Eagles and Ravens share the blue palace….

Younger Ponderings

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I am lonely sometimes in the way that I feel about life. Hardly any one I know agrees with me. I feel sad because I find a beauty that I can never put down. I carry it in my heart. My spirit can not be broken because I have found my place in life. I cannot go back to my past. My future will be radical. I have found my song. It is in my soul that I can stir up the old way.

Desert of Dreams

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All over that country I drive that junker wherever it will allow me to go. Out to places without any incredible features, to places that are starving without the green beauty. Areas that are flat and deadlike, and have their own loneliness. Out there in the desert the dreams, and ghosts pass by bottomless mountain ranges under blue sky. The Creator created this place for me to love. I love traveling a highway for 100 miles without services. In three days I might only see one other car or truck.

The power of the sky and the desert, I cannot get it out of my mind. I stand up in the wild and feel the old way still alive. At night when I sleep close to the Earth’s power, I know that every thing will be all right in the end. I can’t forget what I have found and learned about the old way. I will always remember to know that I will always have my place in this universe and that I will always exist, some place, some day, forever.

Places of silence, is where I can find the great mystery. He knows me and I talk to him. I know that something listens to me out there in the void. What I send out comes back to me ten times over. I have said it all!

Smell of Smoke

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In the night, the smell of smoke from some old fire reminds me of forgotten traditions. The sky is filled with candled stars that make the desert glow. What is it that makes the fire of silence burn so hot? My spirit will not stay shut up. I will find the ways of truth. The sky and earth is where I search.