obsessing much?

discovered today that i'm working too hard on the bike. i set the seat too close to the pedals and so my legs were scrunching up into me belly! set it back a peg and voila! still did 40 minutes but added an extra mile and a half to my distance theoretically traveled in a sitting position without having to balance or look where i was going, which is lucky considering my nose was buried in a book the entire time.

two things of note today:

did you read about the girl who died in quebec because of her allergies to peanuts? she went into anaphylactic shock after kissing her boyfriend who had eaten a peanut butter sandwich hours earlier. 15 years old. kisses her boyfriend, then dies after doctors are unable to revive her, in spite of receiving a timely shot of adrenalin.

15 years old.

damn.

...do i seem to be obsessing on death these days? could it have something to do with reading too many news stories? something to do with my own age?

oh, and peanut allergies have been on the rise in recent decades, possibly having to do with baby creams or lotions that use peanut oil in them that cause children to develop allergies later in life.

the other thing of note (i know... you're probably saying to yourself... anything happy or at least not so depressing? and the answer would be no.): november 29th marks the 141st anniversary of the sand creek massacre.

for those non-history buffs, or who just kinda listened in high school when the hisotry teacher talked about the battle of sand creek (if they dealt with it at all.. which isn't a guarantee, considering it came near the tail end of the civil war), here's a quick summary.

a band of southern cheyenne and arapahoe indians, camped outside of fort lyon, colorado were attacked and killed by a force of colorado volunteers led by col. john chivington.

having led his band of people under the protection of major edward wynkoop, their informal leader, black kettle, was determined to make peace, in spite of raids by other bands of cheyenne who found it impossible to live on the government hand outs doled out by the indian agents (read more about it... the history channel and also pbs have excellent resources about this whole incident).

black kettle flew a white truce flag and also an american flag (a gift from general nelson miles who assured him that as long as he honored the treaties and flew this flag that no harm would come to him or his people from the us army). the soldiers attacked near dawn, while many of the indian men were out hunting, having been given permission to hunt near the fort. apparently, many of the soldiers were also drunk when they attacked (near dawn). more than 100 women and children, along with 28 native men were killed. then the corpses were scalped and many of the bodies were mutilated, before the company of volunteers paraded the body parts through the streets of denver.

during the intermission at a downtown theatre, the scalps were shown to the applause of approving crowds (bitter over being raided by the indians).

later investigations 'strongly condemned' the attacks and mutilations, but because chivington resigned his commission, they found that they were unable punish him, as he was no longer under military jurisdiction.

yeah.

all of which leads me to post this, courtesy of sherman alexie, and availabe in his book, first indian on the moon. check it out. seriously. me? i need sleep.


Tiny Treaties

What I remember most about loving you
that first year is the December night
I hitchhiked fifteen miles through a blizzard
after my reservation car finally threw a rod
on my way back home from touching

your white skin again. Wearing basketball shoes
and a U.S. Army Surplus jacket
my hair long, unbraided, and magnified
in headlights of passing cars, trucks, two snowplows
that forced me off the road, escaping

into the dormant wheat fields. I laughed
because I was afraid but I wasn't afraid
of dying, just afraid of dying
in such a stupid manner. All the Skins
would laugh into their fists

at my wake. All the cousins would tell my story
for generations. I would be the perfect reservation metaphor:
a twentieth century Dull Knife
pulling his skinny ass and dreams
down the longest highway in tribal history.

What I imagine now
is the endless succession of white faces
hunched over steering wheels, illuminated
by cigarettes and dashboard lights, white faces
pressed against windows as cars passed by me

without hesitation. I waited seconds into years
for a brake light, that smallest possible treaty
and I made myself so many promises
that have since come true
but I never had the courage to keep

my last promise, whispered
just before I topped a small hill
and saw the 24-hour lights
of the most beautiful 7-11 in the world.
With my lungs aching, my hands and feet

frozen and disappearing, I promised
to ask if you would have stopped
and picked me up if you didn't know me
a stranger Indian who would have fallen in love
with the warmth of your car, the radio

and the steady rhythm
of windshield wipers over glass, of tires
slicing through ice and snow. I promised
to ask you that question every day
for the rest of our lives

but I won't ask you even
once. I'll just remain quiet
when memories of that first year
come roaring through my thin walls
and shake newspapers and skin.

I'll just wrap myself
in old blankets, build fires
from bald tires and abandoned houses
and I won't ask you the question
because I don't want to know the answer.

--sherman alexie