Porcupine Story

She is a tired soul.  Beautiful.  Too beautiful to hold and keep in one place.  Why she loved the darkness and speaking about oppression.  The ancestors surround and support her.  She can hear the pulse of the heart beat of Mother Earth.

She is a bourgeoisie woman.  She is a proletariat woman. She is a rich bitch woman.  She is a poor trailer trash woman.  She is a country woman.  She is a rural woman.  She is a ghetto woman. She is a rez woman.  All stigmatized in a white male patriarchal culture.  Never allowed to fully be herself.  

Porcupine sits outside her window and listens.

Lighting a candle.  The candle sits on her window sill.  No one listens to her story.  Instead they listen to the buzz of the street lights, car going by and the chatter in their own head.

The candle is lit and the story is about the ancestors who appear as others.  Who appear as a friend, a winged one or a four footeded friend.  They sit and listen.  The fly and listen, deliver messages to others.  Non-linear time.

Her story.  Her experience.  Her voice.

Slowly she can feel that she can rise above.  Society's structures bury her.  That is the goal.  Fire in her hands.  Fire to build.  Fire to tend to.

Porcupine sits outside her window and listens.

The medicine sometimes is no medicine.  Sometimes to sit and listen.  To feel the quiet and be uncomfortable with loneliness.  Medicine can make us sick to purge the old.

She was certain that the land was speaking through her.  The old systems were not of importance.  The land had a voice that not many people could listen to.  Only those who honored the land.

Write.  Write fiercely, furiously and feverishly.  Write as a revolution.  Write for survival.

Dimming streetlight.  Sounds outside are loud.

Her story is the story of the porcupine outside the window listening.