Around 10,000 years ago, Paleo-Eskimos
arrived from the steppes of Asia to what is now Alaska. But instead
of turning south, to warmer climates, they continued east, then
north to where day and night each last an eternity, and distance
is measured by as far as one can hear. Windswept ice, outflow glaciers,
calving icebergs, the
experience in Otherness began with the first step out of the
house; as soon as the pilgrims set out on the road, they became
foreigners: the pilgrims were and were not themselves as soon as
they moved into a realm which transcended their former knowledge
of a place that could only support small bands paced
off in slow
deep time guided by other gods.” Why didn't they leave?
Left home this
morning with an extra sweater stuffed into a worn daypack with
notebook and camera,
walking the street to where three flights of steps lead up to a road connecting
the city's heart with
a wheel of sprawling suburban centers. To my left, expensive homes cling to
silty hillsides,
bedded on antediluvian outcrops of black basalt. We build
on Nature's voluptuous body,
clothing her in the silks of our engineering; while our psyches
still sacrifice to Artemis,
and our hounds still demand to be fed.
Our appetite for gods pacifies
the sobering knowledge of one's temporal life. Thus, K’och’en, spirits
who travel in the pure dimension of white, were seen in the grizzled
shades of clouds.
"You
have heard the tales of white birds, wings from dawn
to dusk.
They fill the sky with translucence, muffle the
shape of clouds.
Their cries gave someone the idea of language and
mourning.
The utterance of the first word, 'inconceivable.'
Sila, creator of the universe,
dwells beneath the frigid sea. Caribou Mother, Moon Man, Indweller
in the Wind, Indweller in the Earth. Shua, Shugunra, Inua,
Nunam-shua, Nuliajuk... What
happens to a mythology when its ecology changes? Are the gods and
spirits misshapen? Are they bent on revenge? Or do they simply
disappear?
To
my right, the river is belted with yards of trains, docks,
giant cranes lifting steel containers off the broad backs
of ships, rows of cavernous warehouses, all the paraphernalia
and pollution of modern industry behind which strings of
gray hills shoulder snowcapped volcanic peaks and lava
domes.
Skirting
two tunnels coughing noxious fumes, I finally reach the
stone wall guarding the trail's head, and wind my way down
around mud and rocks to the Song of the Swollen Creek.
From
here, the mythis
only to be found far away
from people, out in the great solitude, and it is not found in
play but only in suffering. Solitude and suffering
open the human mind, and therefore
flows north again. |
|
|