To Favor Riley

Riley is spoiled, yes spoiled. She is so spoiled, in fact, that she absolutely refuses to let anyone else have my attention. She cries and cries if I step out the front door without petting her. And if I quit petting her to give Rascle attention she wanders off to the side and stares at me as if I have betrayed her. Of course, my heart tends to favor Riley. She was, afterall, my first sleddog. And so I give Rascle what little bit of attention I can and then walk over to wrap my arms around her. She's tamed to me. No one else can get close to her anymore. I suppose she's learned the cruelty of the village. The children don't know better and I'm sure she has been kicked and hit too many times to count. The adults don't consider her anything more than a nueasence and if she is in their presence they probably shoo her off. She's just a poor little stray now. I'm all she has left. So I really don't mind giving her all the attention I do. I know I'm the only one who takes the time to do so.

Lifting Trees

The wood we gather is heavy. Typically it's harvested in the spring as the river washes all of the winters findings down to the Bering Sea. But this winter was cold and we ran out. So off my darling and I went in search of few logs to last us through winter- or in other words late May. Now my darling, being a typical man, told me to stand off as he handled these peices of wood. And now me, being the woman who never takes 'this is a man's job' for an answer, stepped up and lifted the log myself. It was terribly heavy. An entire tree practically. I stumbled and my entire body trembled as I forced myself to lift it into the sled. But I tell you what, the look on his face when I turned around was worth the pain my body left me with soon after.

A First Dogsled Ride

It wasn't a 'big deal', but it was a worldly change for me. He simply asked if I wanted to ride in the sled. The one we pull behind the snow machine when we travel to gather wood. This sled, is a dog sled. Made of wood. And riding in it, consists of riding on it- just the way you would a dog sled- for it is a dog sled. Of course I wanted to ride! It was my first time. And I know what you're thinking. 'Dearest Lone Alaskan Gypsy, you have two sleddogs and you have never even stepped foot on a dog sled?" Well no, I hadn't. But now I have. And it felt so so natural, so erfect. My legs and my arms and my entire awkward body just understood what to do. It was right... just right. I don't drive... anything. Driving mechanical vehicles terrifies me. But this, this is what I was met to do. My hands froze closed and my face stung in the wind. My boots slipped while ramping over a snowbank and my ankle cracked in excrutiating pain. But it was perfect. Every second of it. If only I had a house, or even just a landlord that wouldn't mind a pack of domesticated wolves in my yard. Perhaps I could make such an event a habit of my life. Maybe someday, maybe someday...

Tragic Light For My Soul

I've waited a week. I should wait longer but in order to keep this memory as close to real as possible I must record it now. Suicides have been happening regurally this spring. My heart breaks each time someone takes their own soul on its path to heaven. This last event was a father. A good father of more than a few kids. I never knew him. But the other day I felt this odd sense of reassurance... from him. I was having doubts and fears of my future. And like this odd twist of fate I felt his hand come down on my shoulder and he told me it was okay, and I was going to change lives. The lives of his children. I don't know how... or why. Sometimes I think I just here voices. Or perhaps my imagination is too vivid. But this time some sort of light entered my soul. I feel lighter, more confident, and like I have this strong outside force all of the sudden pushing my life in an entirely new but wonderful direction. After such a tragic ending I hate to be feeling like this. But in an odd way I feel his spirit has given me a new beginning...

All Seven Blackfish

I have acquired a much bigger aquarium for my blackfish. I filled it with roots and plants. There's a light now. And a current. And of course a continueing supply of fresh bugs for them to always be enjoying. An entire corner of my living room is dedicate to it. And I have also named them all. All seven of them.

Fireweed: She's my dainty little girl. The first one I fell in love with, although I love them all the same.
Molly: She's the biggest female. The one with 'the hump'. The hump disappeared once I put her in this larger aquarium. She seems much healthier and happier now.
Bobby: He's the biggest male fish. A friendly ole' giant with a nice smile.
Engine: He's the smallest male fish. He's tiny, yes, but he's also quite the little speed-demon and will rapidly race around the tank in a way no other blackfish could compete with.
Grumpy: He's cute, not grumpy. But he has a little defect on the corner of his mouth that makes him look like he's always frowning.
Button: She's tiny, the smallest female. And she is the cutest, sweetest, little soul. She kind of beats to her own drum. She's a little odd, but that's why I love her.
Autumn: Autumn's pretty normal. She's an average sized little female. We caught her in the fall, and hence her name of Autumn.

They're lovely, every single one. My darling and I spent all of today admiring them swim around and eat and rest and jump out of the water. With one channel on our television, fish always seem to be much better entertainment than the only-show-available anyways.

A Writer, She Is

People often ask me why I write, or perhaps more so why I write so well. I've been writing since I can remember. At a young age my very dearest friend became my notebook and my pencil (never a pen, for I often liked the idea of being able to erase and forget things). I spilled my secrets into diaries rather than friend's minds. I wrote stories and my dreams and memories I wanted to keep clearly into my old age. Writing forced me to see beauty in things, to reevaluate my thought process, and to deal with my emotions in a manner that I could understand. Writing is my therapy, my sanity, my hobby, and my favorite way to spend a sunny afternoon. I don't have an addictive personality. Alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs have never had a profound or even remotely noticable effect on me. But writing does. Writing is my addiction. Perhaps it's bad, perhaps it's good, or perhaps it's nothing at all. But my writing is my life. I couldn't imagine doing anything else.

Lacking Social Contact

I'm not sure if you've noticed but I lack a certain level of social contact. My life resides in the tundra, in my cabin, and in my own bittersweet imagination. But aside from myself, I truly have no real company at all. My darling lives with me, but we often adventure our own little ways. I'm neither shy nor socially-awkward. I suppose I just find more comfort in myself than I do in the bothersome talking of someone else. To me silence is more precious than the bickering of a fellow human. I find solitude to be more entertaining than the irrational behavior of instable people anyhow. I think people find me secretive and timid. I am neither. I just choose to be an introvert. Social situations teach me fewer lessons than merely watching snowflakes fall. I'm a yearner of knowledge. I think perhaps that's the reason nature is more of a friend to me than any human being.

Rain And Roses

It's so cliche to say 'one's beauty is equal to a rose'. A rose is beautiful, yes. But so stereotpyical. So ordinarally attractive. I never compare one's image to a rose. Wild roses grow here in Alaska. They are beautiful. But alas, so is the snow. So are small, insignificant, twisting willow trees. So are cloudy evenings when the night is truly, in the deepest sense, dark. People don't think to look for beauty in things outside of what the world tells them is beautiful. The sunshine on a flower garden. Everyone says that's beautiful. But what about the way the slowly falling rain drops makes shapes on a dirty window pane? Why isn't that just as beautiful. It is. it just isn't recognized as being so.

No Anonymous Letters

My mail box has been empty lately. I'm a letter writer. A writer of letters. A little dweller of a tundra village that seems to have no contact with the outside world aside from a few sweet notes left on a stationary paper in a vanilla colored envelope. The stamps are simple in color. The writing often sloppy and the notes simply signed anonymously. I love to send things off. Kind notes with no 'from'. Just a 'to' and nothing more. But sometimes I wish I would get a letter in return. I write thank-you's, and secret admirings, and confessions of the things I wish I would have said. If only, once, just once, I would get a reply from someone who truly cared in return.

Jump In Soft Snow

The weather has offered up yet another array of large cotton balls falling from the stars. They've been light this time. The wind usually blows them horizontally. For the first time in a while they've fallen like feathers with a verticle stride. This makes them soft and fluffy. They don't sink or harden, but rather lie loosely around eachother. It makes them heavy and wet. Riley and Rascal play avidly amidst them without bruising themselves. They do kind of create a big soft cushion just awaiting to be jumped into. And the temptentation is overwhelming. So I think I shall. Just run... and jump.

A Little Green Speck

There is a tiny green leaf peering from the dirt in my windowsill container. It seems insignificant. To people elsewhere perhaps it is. But in Alaska, this time of year is no more closer to spring than midwinter. The snow is still coming, and although I love it so dearly, I miss my greenlings. To prevent cabin fever I plant seedlings on my windowsill. Today I caught a small glimpse of something that seems like a very big accomplishment to me. A tiny quaking aspen seedling rose above the surface to meet the sunlight with smiling green leaves. I feel lovely. It's tiny. Could be squashed by a mere fingernail. But this tiny phenomenon means the entire world to my sentimental heart.

Warming Riley

I looked out the window today to see Riley shaking freezing in the front yard. Her poor sleddog figure couldn't resist the negative twenty below temperatures that this morning brought forth. Without thought I put myself in my parka and walked out the front door. She saw me and ran over into me. I wrapped my arms around her and she buried her head into my chest, lifted her legs into my waist and curled herself into my heart. We sat for probably a half hour. I, simply in my pajamas and socks. Her fur kept me warm and I warmed her with my breath. As I breathed I let the warmth of my air intertwine in her furs. She quit shaking after a little while. But didn't move. She just laid there in my arms. Her true owners watched from their windows. They don't approve of my love for her. They'd rather she die so they can quit their responsibility. Not that they have any. They neither feed nor care for her. And that's why I didn't care that they witnessed me shivvering in the front lawn with their dog in my arms. I couldn't watch her freeze. She's too precious. And I hope they know that. I hope they realize that their actions, day by day, are breaking my heart. And my poor sleddog is the one who has to suffer most of all.

Killing Blackfish

One of my blackfish is growing a hump on its back. This is called 'Fish TB'. I believe at some point in time the fish will die from it. And unfortunately it's contageous. This terrifies me. I do not want to have to kill one of my fish. But I do not want all of them to die. They sit right beside me every day as I read on the couch. They stick their little faces right up to the glass and watch me. Then they will look up and beg for little worms. So I drop some in. And now one of them is beginning to die. Ugh, it breaks my heart. I'm terrible at getting attached to things. I cry when my garden dies in the fall. And so now I have to make the sacrifice of one of my dearly treasured fish to spare the life of the others. Why must my weak mind be put through such drama? It's like killing one of your children. Not literally of course, but for a teenager like myself it seems the same...

Sewing Seal Skin

Today, I experienced the act of doing something that few white Americans will ever have the chance to do. I sewed seal skin. It’s illegal for a white person to possess seal skin, unless it has been made into something by a native. My bright blue eyes and light blond hair hold no error for the judgment of my race.  Needless to say, I will never hold the chance to create my own seal-skin item. But, I did happen to drift across a very worn pair of seal-skin slippers. As we all know, I truly adore old things. And so I took these ragged old things into my home. There were many holes and tears. The leather is old. I believe they were created from scrap. For many different kinds of seal are used. And I find them beautiful. So instead of letting them waste away, I refurbished them. I grabbed my dull needle and old thread and sewed them up. They don’t look new. The fur is still shedding and they kind of smell of urine. Fortunately I don’t quite mind, and I’ll wear them nevertheless. I’ll wear them until even their refurbished soles give way to my wooden floors. And I’ll remember them for the action they gave me. The act of doing something, typically only my Eskimo neighbors could do.