Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Activist Times Inc. canoe
***MAN EATEN BY LARGE CANOE***
(APWN)Quinektukut-- Holy Fuckin Shit!
Those tiny little waves wailed on me.
The boy scouts taught me how to paddle
on a lake. I was NOT prepared for my canoe
ride in Mystic Harbour this morning.
Not at all.
I think I travelled about 800 feet in
an hour flat. My hands are still soaking
wet. Wet from all the hard splash I had
to do just to keep inside the Grumman.
I'm facing away from this post I tied
onto.
I am going NOWHERE.
Yet this landlubber still must look
back behind him to reassure he's not
going to smash into the pole he's tied
onto.
Pure science is that he's being
pulled away from the post constantly.
However eyes and settling stomach
tell him the opposite.
You look down beside you and you're
travelling about 3 MPH backwards. Look
anywhere else, you're going nowhere fast.
Triceps are severely pumped. Feet and
ankles are torn to shreds. Driving an
'87 Chevy S-10, you dont know what a
struggle is.
Step onto the back of this Canoe
and I will relax in front of you...
watching. Waiting patiently as you
throw your paddle around fighting
the quarter-inch waves.
Humbling.
***MAN EATEN BY LARGE CANOE (CON'T)***
(APWN)Quinektukut-- I lay back and
sun myself.
Close my eyes, I'm a Pequot. I
haven't slept in 3 days. Her lady,
Tracy, has teased me all week leaving
me frustrated, blue, balling in my tent
at night.
A settler would cry himself to sleep.
I cry long long enough 'til I am
severely spooked. I close my eyes and
see Her Lady standing in front of me.
Not a thread of clothing. Only a tiny
triangle of hair marking the place
where she does not allow me to touch.
Just yet.
"Girls," you say to me; in your
colonial tone of voice. "Can't live
without 'em; can't live with em."
"I cant live," I say so only I can
hear. I will fast for three more days.
I will weigh less than I did before.
I will be weak, sleek, and slender,
the sex god you want me to be, my
Lady.
I will return, we will feast. You
will break my fast.
You will adore me; I will return.
I open my eyes, you are paddling
down the Thames. We must go around
the point and meet the eastern dark
teenagers.
They signalled us they have some
killer tobacco, right from the Cubano's
private stash.
We will smoke, and dance, and talk of
warring against the elders and their
segregated style. Their bitter grudges
on those who dont look or act like
them.
We all fall to the ground exhausted
from our battle rehearsal. Smiting
takes a lot out of a Pequot like I.
But it must be tougher on you, my
colonial friend.
I wonder if the darks know about
hatred; back in the Giant Island in
the Orient's way.
I ask of you.
"Let's find out," you suggest. We
turn toward our tobacco friends.
"Do any of you hate," you ask them.
Nothing but silence; suddenly 3 no's.
"I know survival and pride," says
one dark friend.
"I cannot hate," says another. I tell
you all WE CAN PULL THIS OFF.
We will build a raft. I will teach
you how to grab fish right out of the
water.
You will show us your medallians--
tell us of all the wrongs your father
locked into your head.
***MAN EATEN BY LARGE CANOE*** (Con't)
(APWN)Quinektekut--This is a
continuation from ATI 15, and 16.
That black and the Tan One and the
one who is light from the far east will
teach you to let go of your hatred.
I cannot teach that. I cannot even
learn it. All I can do is hold hatred
deep
inside my hollow.
Inside-- where my stomach pits and
aches. I hold it in and near my scalp
there is an emotional brim where I can
release it-- drop by insignificant
drop.
Her Lady pretended to be the one who
will learn me to let go of my hate.
"Don't touch," she said. "Not the
time; soon."
I wait for forever to finally come.
Forever.
We bid our dark friends "til next we
gather".
The witches in the sound by the race
navigate us from the south; our left
side. The westerly gods of wind push
us back to the moutn of the thames.
You tell me: I had my laugh; it's my
turn to paddle. I smile, as I walk
lowly
to the back of our aguatree.
I kneel and slice the wet ground
with your dad's sanded and whittled
two-
by-four. You Swedish carpenters are
all so pretty and finished. But the
form
overrides the function and I slow to
start us up the bleeding Thames-- put
my
biceps and forearms and lower back
into the act getting us almost to the
plank
that crosses over to the New
Settlement. You lift the plank 3
inches, we float
under. This is the Thames, remember.
This is my vessel. I built her out
of a sap. Carved her out myself,
torched
her up and waited for the Arsongods to
finish.
From the front you see, I have
shaped her like My Lady... Tracy in
all her
frontal glory.
From the back you will see the horse
you rode in on. Little or no
resistance,
a tail to slice and keep us forward.
She's our '87 beast. And she gets us
from A point to B point. I turn her
over
and cover her with the quinektekut
tobacco leaves. They are my padlock.
I am a Pequot. I have hatred, but no
mistrust. Night falls, "later", you
tell
me.
You return.
