Both are alike; and both alike we like. The capital of one of the nine provinces of Venetia, and of all the cities of those provinces second in importance to Venice alone.
On this particular March day inTheodore Facepaint, who was nine years old, agreed to do a parody.
With hand balanced on hip and the left leg slightly in front of the right, my newly found friend positioned himself on Sand Hill before turning to face the hazy afternoon sun. This was a pose we had become familiar with: When I projected the image of the color 35 mm slide onto the wall last week I remembered the sense of mirth in which it was taken.
Yet somewhere slightly north of where we were clowning around, Grandmother was uprooting medicinal roots from the sandy soil and placing them inside her flower-patterned apron pockets to thaw out.
Twenty-nine years later, if I look long enough, existential symbols are almost detectable. The direction of the fiery sun in descent, for example, is considered the Black Eagle Child Hereafter.
Could I be seeing too much? Past the west and into the Grandfather World? When I look closely at the background of the Indian Dam below—the horizontal line of water that runs through the trees and behind Ted—I also know that Liquid Lake with its boxcar-hopping light is nearby.
For Ted and his Well-Off Man Church, the comets landed on the crescent-shaped beach and lined themselves up for a ritualistic presentation. For Jane Ribbon, a mute healer, a seal haunted this area. But further upriver is where the ancient deer hunter was offered immortality by three goddesses.
While the latter story of our geographic genesis is fragmented, obscuring and revealing itself as a verisimilitude, it is important. Ted and I often debated what we would have done had we been whisked through a mystical doorway to a subterranean enclave. Ted, unlike the ancient hunter who turned down paradise, would have accepted— and the tribe never would have flexed its newborn spotted wings.
But the question being asked today is, Have we kept anything?
Our history, like the earth with its abundant medicines, Grandmother used to say, is unfused with ethereality. In me, in Ted, and everyone. Stories then, like people, are subject to change.
More so under adverse conditions. They are also indicators of our faithfulness. She was also attuned to the fact that for generations our grandparents had wept unexpectedly for those of us caught in the blinding stars of the future. Mythology, in any tribal-oriented society, is a crucial element. Without it, all else is jeopardized with becoming untrue.
Most fabled among the warnings is the one that forecasts the advent of our land-keeping failures. Many felt this began last summer when a whirlwind abruptly ended a tribal celebration. From the north in the shape of an angry seagull it swept up dust.
At the last second the whirlwind changed direction, going toward the tribal recreation complex. Imperiled, the people within the circus tent- like structure could only watch as the panels flapped crazily. A week later, my family said the destruction was attributable to the gambling hall, which was the actual point of weakness of the tribe itself.
Which is to say the hill where a bronze-eyed Ted once stood is under threat of impermanence. By allowing people who were not created by the Holy Grandfather to lead us we may cease to own what Ted saw on the long-ago day.How To Write A Sonnet.
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Sonnet 18 Sonnet 18 is among the most famous of Shakespeare’s works and is believed by many to be one of the greatest love poems of all time.
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How to Write a Poem. In this Article: Article Summary Sample Poems Starting the Poem Writing the Poem Polishing the Poem Community Q&A Writing a poem is all about observing the world within or around you. A poem can be about anything, from love to loss to the rusty gate at the old farm.