Daily Wisdom Of Clay

Friday, June 12, 2015

Spiritually Lanced

The thrill of landing a bruiser Brookie made time leave, ears back and tail between its legs.

It didn’t matter who caught the fish, Clay or Thorny, so long as it made a creel its new home.

“Adjust the drag Clay, Thorny, dammit! I’ll get the net ready,” I yelled.

The sound of line-whine and reel-squeal told us this was no brook trout. It surfaced for a moment.

“Rainbow! It’s a Rainbow, Migizi!” said jubilant Clay.

Our hand nets were designed for Brookies, not lunker Rainbow Trout. I got down to water’s edge and prepared. The big fish appeared to tire easily and Clay eased it toward me. Touching my net, the trout revolted. Flipping hard, it flopped up on shore and snapped the line. Instinctively, I chucked the net and grabbed at the gyrating fish.

I was able to hold it tightly enough to toss the thing further from the water and that’s when it happened. Reality shifted me backward in time to being at the train bridge with Clay. We were age 12 and fishing. Clay caught a huge Bass and I had to land it by hand. Our laughter and victory whoops forged our spirits together likely beautiful Damascus steel.

As if a giant hand got hold of my collar, I was hauled back a little further in time. I was back in school, like in the dream I’d had at Clay’s. This time, I knew it was real, not dream, and I recognized Clay as being an instrument of peace when I was getting beaten for being a half breed. Later that day, I thanked Clay for his effort, invited him fishing, and we became buddies and brothers in school and out.

Feeling a push from behind, I flew forward in time to a couple years beyond our fishing victory at the bridge. I watched myself viciously beating Clay after luring him to a secluded area in the woods. We were encircled by mythical beasts. Black bears with Raven heads, shoulder to shoulder, stood tall like men and repeatedly chanted “sacrifice him”.

My blood, lava hot, flowed to my lungs at seeing this and I began suffocating. I collapsed in a heap beside Clay who was bruised, bloody, and sobbing. My spirit rose from my body, happy and excited to be free, and like my namesake, Eagle, started soaring higher.

“No you don’t. Get back here hon! It’s not time yet. Come on now, I mean it, return right now.”

The familiar voice of my wife, containing great medicine power, arrested my flight and drew me back into my body and I woke from the dream-vision.

Rolling from my back to my side to get up, I put my hand down on the trout. Its colorful hide was dull and dry and ants were already coming to check it out. I must have been out of commission for a good 20 minutes.

All the fishing gear, mine and Clay’s, was still topside on the bank but Clay was gone. My mind, feeling like the trout looked, cramped up like my feet often did at night. Two realities fought for control, one reviling and the other assuring.

“Load up and come home hon. It’s over, you’ve done what you could,” my wife’s voice said.

“You’re right, I did, I’m heading home sweety,” I said aloud.

I had no immediate memory of the vision or the moments immediately before going unconscious. I was getting used to the spells and didn’t bother caring.

“Yup, I’m out of here,” I said.

Poison As Remedy?

Clay flattened out his left hand. JuJu buzzed over to it from the bottle and landed in his palm. An observant man of high reason would have wondered if JuJu resided somewhere on Clay’s person or flew many miles to find him. Denial makes fools of us all sometimes.

The sun, freeing itself from the horizon, announced the time as being shortly before 8 am. A muskrat swam by and nearly bumped into Clay’s line. I wanted to trade places and swim away.

“You know, Migizi, I told Clay to invite you here. A lot was riding on you accepting and here you are. Glad you made it.”

“Well, Thorny, and hello again JuJu, how’s about sending Clay back out. He got me here like you wanted so…”

“So, Migizi, you want me to leave before we’ve had our chat. Sorry, as I said, it’s important you hear what I have to say, far more than you know. I can say what Clay never can.”

I slipped my day pack from my shoulder and put it on the ground along with my pole and creel. Crossing my arms in defiance, I replied.

“What the hell do you or Clay have against me? My intensity made my words louder. “What have I ever done to Clay that he needs a persona like you to defend him?”

“Hey, fishing voice please,” said Thorny. “We caught a couple monster Brookies in this hole already and I bet there’s more. And, why do you assume you’ve offended Clay? We never said you did, well, not exactly. No, what I need to tell you is for your sake, a gift from Clay.”

I sat down on the bank and leaned against a big cedar. Opening a warm bottle of pop, it spewed brown foam. Quickly capturing what I could with my mouth, Clay shook his head but Thorny commented.

“Yup, going back to being kids, you always had a knack for doing that. Hey, Migizi, you’re and educated man. You ever heard of bee venom therapy?”

I burped and nodded yes. “I presume you’re talking about bee stings for treating arthritis.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Thorny with a knowing smile. “It’s all about homeopathy or the principle of letting like be cured by like. Sometimes pain is best treated with pain and, Migizi, you have pain that has turned putrid and poisonous. It’s been killing you, ever so slowly, for most of your life.”

Without realizing it, as if trying to bury myself and hide, I had dug ruts in the loamy dirt with the heels of my shoes. Tensing with anger, I squeezed the pop bottle while eye-balling Clay’s neck. I heard my wife’s voice in my mind.

“He’s right and you know it hon.”

“You’re the expert Thorny,” I said sarcastically. “Enlighten me.”

Clay’s fishing line went a tiny bit slack. He focused on it while letting Thorny take me to task.

“Tell me, when did you first meet Clay? Don’t say it was when you were young teens at the train bridge because that isn’t correct.”

“But dammit, it was at the train bridge and my earliest memory is of us as teens.”

Clay tightened his line.

“Migizi, share your earliest memory, any memory, with me.”

“Okay, Thorny, I remember being maybe 8 and going to Pow-Wow. I was walking with my mom and dad when some older Rez kids walked by and said that half breeds weren’t allowed.”

“Hmm,” said Thorny, “just as I thought. That’s among the first of poison tipped arrows to hit you.”

The end of Clay’s pole dipped down slowly, jerked, and we gladly abandoned the chat. Clay set the hook.

“Fish on!”

Friday, June 5, 2015

Slipping On Clay

“Gosh, I don’t know if it’s a migraine or aneurism Clay but cripes it hurts. Messin’ with my memory also.”

Ghosts of coffee beans, boiled to death, rose from my hot cup and I blew them away with my breath. “How did I get in the tent brother?”

Clay, a white ring of powdered sugar around his mouth, forms words with his voice and doughnut. Spit-soggy crumbs flew toward me as he answered.

“You staggered in there with my help.” He slurped his brew. “You kinda passed out when I was talkin’ to ya by the fire. Figured you were tired.”

“I don’t recall any of it,” I said, “last thing I remember was getting into it with Sheriff.”

Finally cool enough, I drank my rich, black, migraine potion until gone. Clay pushed the package of donuts to me with his foot. I pawed a couple from it and ate them in short order. My buddy refilled my cup so I could wash them down.

“Maybe movin’ and getting your blood stirrin’ around will fix ya. Yah, get your legs into that spring fed water and let it cool your pain. Besides, Ain’t It, it’s healing ya know, fishin’ and water flowing over rocks, a big ole magnet that sucks darkness right out and carries it far away.”

My brother made sense, the cold water part at least. And true, catching my first brook trout would focus me intently in the present and divert me away from worry. Or so I thought.

“Okay Clay, let’s do it. You already…”

“Yup, already got our gear and day packs ready. Change into your wading clothes while I snuff the fire.”

As I changed, my thoughts turned to my wife and I considered checking my phone before getting in the water. Remembering it was Memorial Day and how busy she’d be, I decided against it and met up with Clay.

I wore my dirty jeans, v-neck tee shirt, and sneakers. We avoided use of waders because we’d go through so much brush in search of fish they’d likely get punctured. Walking the foot path to the river, dew drenched ferns primed my shoes and pants for the soon-to-come soaking.

We fished, went our separate ways for a while, and would rendezvous in about an hour to compare fish. I limited out in half that time. Fish in my creel, headache and concerns gone, my spirit recharged quickly. I even whistled quietly as I slowly made my way back toward Clay. My wife always said she gauged my moods according to my whistling.

The forest got loud when a hawk got close to some nesting crows. They broadcasted the offense loudly as they pecked at in flight. I chuckled about it and felt sorry for the hawk that was merely being himself and meaning no harm.

Spotting Clay, I was surprised to find him sitting on the bank eating. His pole was propped on stick and line stretched taut as it anchored itself in the bottom of a deep pool.

“What the hell brother, eating already?” I asked. “Did you even get in the water?”

He didn’t look at me or answer. He chewed on jerky and stared at the water. A yellow caution light flashed in my mind as I came alongside him. A bee was perched on the lip of his pop bottle, JuJu I presumed. Eyes squinting with seriousness, my pal looked at me and spoke.

“We need to talk,” said Thorny.

Moccasins: Size Death

Journal: Memorial Day on the Boredman

I drifted in and out of consciousness unable to move or speak. At one point I was on the ground and later in the tent. Orange and yellow demon tongues flicked at the wall of the tent and me. Maybe it was only firelight. Once, I saw a demon-man putting wood on the campfire. I thought I’d wake up fully at that point. Its angry face turned and looked at me. It was me.

“Wake up wheel boy, wake up. Wake up hon, wake up.”

The voices of two women spoke to me in unison. I couldn’t seem to wake up so I slept while it haunted me. I dreamed of two women, His Favorite Gal and my wife, one fully native the other not. They alternated between loving and pestering me in word and deed. I was glad when they stopped and stood quietly before me. Standing side by side, they leaned against each other and melted into one person with half brown and half pale complexion.

I dreamed of Clay and I attending school again. We were friends, happy, brothers, tight. Then, still as young boys, we went fishing. We were heading home when an owl soared at us. It slammed into me, ripped my chest with its talons, and took flight. Spiritual poison oozed throughout my soul. Everything went dark and I slept free of dreams or visions.

Pow-Wow’s host drum pounded me awake, well, that’s what my ears and head felt. I was in the tent, fully dressed, bug bitten, and scratching. It was maybe 6 am judging by the sky’s hazy light.

Disoriented, I shoved confusion aside. I sensed disaster nearby, no, it was death. Wearing moccasins, it crept around in silence. Distracted by my brain, I remembered the visions and dreams but struggled to recall where I was and how I got there. A voice outside the tent guided me.

“Get your wrinkly old skin movin’ ya geezer. We’re spose be goin’ fishing.”

It was Clay’s voice. My nose, wiggling like a happy dog’s tail, got excited when it whiffed coffee brewing. Ah yes, camping, Sheriff, and I felt there was more but no memory came up. Crawling from the tent, I saw a small quiet fire making hot, passionate, love to the coffee pot that percolated in response. I didn’t see Clay though.

My eyes, sticky from sleep and nightmares, begged to be rubbed. I obliged just in time to see Clay step out from behind a big Oak. Still shaking dew from his pet snake, he finished and caged it in his underwear. I grimaced at the spectacle and the painful squeezing in my brain as he zipped up.

“Yah, so ya heard me I guess,” said Clay full of cheer. “Coffee should be done so let’s grab a few donuts and eat. There’s a big brookie callin’ me out.”

Almost a migraine, the headache made me queasy but the caffeine would help. I sat down while Clay filled our cups.

“Don’t get comfy Ain’t It. We’re only stayin’ for one cup. Pitiful, you look pitiful by the way.”

“Clay, shut the hell up a minute and let me dose this wicked pain in my melon. Yah, I feel as pitiful as I look.”

Clay sat down with a clear plastic crate of a dozen assorted donuts. The crackling sound the container made as it was opened zapped my brain like lightning strikes. I scowled and moaned.

“Migraine?” asked Clay.