October 29, 2005

October 29, 2005-- Honolulu

It’s still dark here. What can’t be seen moves deftly through
the courier winds. I take count of all the events that have
brought me here to this island, to this female native body
that has now turned it’s steps toward death.

We are all going somewhere, that’s true
Or we dream we are—for a week now I have been both the dreamer
of my dreams--and the watcher of my dreams, as now. And I don’t
Know which is which, who is writing the song, who is singing it
and who has decided to become the songs of these winds.

They are familiar, these winds. Called in English: trade winds.
Called by the watcher: the winds who always come during this
season to delight or stun us with knowledge from the rest
of the spin. Refresh us.

I want to know more than I know so I thank this lanky,
weary body. It’s the observation post in a healing field.
The outline is the definition: it’s a pre-dawn sky,
a dark contemplative moon, the weave of the perfume
of naupakapaka, and the wreck of unpacking.

So now, you’re being too literal.
This is how you were taught to negotiate
in the schools of the conquerors.
But how can you know the songs these winds bear
if you know only how to count in English,
and know not the spirits of the numbers?
How they travel.


Joy Harjo