It starts this time of year. The drumming. Drifts across the channel at night, loud and insistent. It is the Swinomish People continuing their old traditions. They gather in a big building and drum and dance and work their magic, a magic that we white folks are oblivious to. We watch T.V. We are spectators. They are creators.
Once, I heard the drums and followed a yearning. I was incredibly drunk and without inhibitions. I felt the need for something cohesive. I went to where the drumming came from. By the back door I entered their church, uninvited and under the influence of a drug that they had battled with for centuries. I saw a glimpse of what they do there.
Of course, I was ejected.
So what is it that I was seeking, in my "state". What are we, as "civilized" folks, missing? I wonder what place inside of us, an empty place, there is that we need to fill with some primal chant.
I still long for that. With all that I have, I am empty.
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About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
1 comment:
I experienced a lot of drumming sessions, pow-wows, squaw dances, and healing ceremonies with my Navajo friend. She'd come and pick me up any time at night for a "drums of summer" somewhere in the reservation, and yes, that is an unforgettable thing. I'd be glued to the drummers circle in a sort of transe like state, and felt at home. Now my friend is not in this world anymore, but I keep all the tapes and CD's she'd offered me of native drums. I like to listen to then full blast. Next time you hear the drumming call me!
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