Thought To Page example essay topic

"Afterword: Black Eagle Child"– by Ray Young Bear " Afterword: Black Eagle Child"– by Ray Young Bear In the spring of 1970, during a smoggy, oily-aired evening in Southern California, I jotted down what was perhaps the first outline of this book. It was a simple one and in some respects no different from the drafts to poems I later published. The one aspect, however, which made this outline stand out for many years was the intriguing set of chapter titles and synopses. Today this outline and the accompanying notes are held permanently between the cold pages of a spiral-backed tablet in storage. They have always been a few feet away, but their sensitive memories have kept me at arm's length-until today. To have gently lifted these words from the light green pages by breathing a heart's pulse into them is a startling juxtaposition to the computer monitor which now records these final entries.

The poetic journey in the making of Black Eagle Child has been a most comprehensive project in terms of message, content, and stylistic approach. There has also been divergence. Considering that the poetic forms I have adopted and adapted (from English, a second language) have little significance in the tribal realm, word collecting was met early on with varying degrees of apprehension. Whenever I entertained the prospect of sitting down at the desk, getting beyond serious, and holding these thoughts long enough to boldly arrange their sequences in order, I discovered forthright our shadows change imperceptibly in accordance with the sun's ascension and descension. As a result, there was work which never materialized. Because of the differences of the bilingual / bi cultural worlds I live in, it sometimes seems as if what is actually published turns out to be a minute and insignificant fraction of one's perpetual metamorphosis.

Putting stories to page has been a task and a half, for the characters and their situations are taken from both autobiographical experiences and imagination. In the delicate ritual of weighing what can and cannot be shared, a greater portion of my work is not based on spontaneity. And a large segment of what is presented for public dissemination is not so much an act of revealing elements that are close to me as it is an exercise in creative detachment. The most interesting facet in all of this has been the artistic interlacing of ethereality, past and present. As such there are considerations of visions, traditional healing, supernaturalism, and hallucinogen-based sacraments interposed with centuries-old philosophies and customs. Since these verities are still a prevalent part of modern tribal society, the divisions between dream and myth are never clear-cut.

The creation of Black Eagle Child was equivalent to a collage done over a lifetime via the tedious layering upon layering of images by an artist who didn't believe in endings, for the sweeping visions he wanted to capture were constant and forever changing. It was therefore essential to depict these visuals in increments, to keep these enigmatic stories afloat in the dark until dust-filled veils of light inadvertently revealed their luminescent shapes. My literary perspectives were often subject to bouts of overconcern and grave underestimation of self. Given the number of season-long debates that were held to determine whether the material presented was unnecessary or sacrilegious, there's no doubt an entire book could have been written. One winter, with space becoming more precious, I was forced to incinerate boxes of reasons-pro and con. While I remained enamored with writing and the meticulous rituals one goes through in bringing thought to page, the relationship of the creator and the created worked best behind the iron borders of this word-collector consciousness.

In most tightly knit societies, one must be keenly aware of social responsibility. For the Mesquakie-People of the Red Earth-it is no different. Circumspection is the paradigm of harmony. But as with everything modern and "civilized", there are often casualties among the ignorant, deprived, and unknowing. I, for one among many, plead guilty to the preceding statement. In extreme cases, one's forgetfulness and insincerity arc not effronteries; they are irreversible, unending truths which began in 1492.

Long ago when I first started to publish my work locally, I was apprised by my grandmother to not ever be "dissuaded by anyone" and to continue with only good intentions in mind. While she obviously realized I was too young and naive to know of Importance, she nevertheless taught there were things I could not write about. For years I truly thought I possessed valuable knowledge. The fact was, I didn't know anything. Yes, I may have heard, seen, and experienced firsthand extraordinary occurrences of reality "gone astray", of steps taken into transmutable dimensions, but they could only be seen and understood from one angle: in retrospect. Reviewing my work with scrutiny and keeping distant from transgression of certain codes and precepts have become inherent parts of the story writing regimen, the premise being that words have an innate sense of power.

With early word-collectors (or informants) and their personal disasters as examples, my grandmother also forewarned commentary was destructive when untethered, for it had the capacity to either inflict or self-inflict harm. As much as has been permissible, I have attempted to hold on to this tenet. Remarkably, now that my destination is within sight, whatever energy I am able to conjure can only be a semblance of elation. For that I am grateful.

There was a time when it could have been worse: I once read of an ancestor who was so exhausted from a military sponsored interview that he lay still for hours in his parents' lodge. For a person whose world had been mystically laid down by a Creator with a fundamental set of understandings and spiritual teachings, I imagine there had never been a structured and compartmentalized perception of Mesquakie ideology as that shown by the white-skinned people, wa be ski na me ska tti kit. Whether or not the account is authentic, I can commiserate with this exhausted character, for there have been occasions when I thought the best recourse was to reconsider direction, questioning what purpose the narratives served-until the state of vexation passed. The philosophy that espouses cosmic insignificance, a belief that humans are but a minute part of world order, has shaped my words.

My expectations are simply to express myself as only an accomplished instrumentalist can, to arrange in melodic and tragic tones the common chords of one's abraded existence. Yet there exists a ceaseless feeling that more needs to be said than what was offered in the space and time given.