Travel Hell: And You Say You Wanna Be a Rockstar

I've been told many times that I'm a "role model" and I have been asked, over and over, to speak to the young ones about my career as a musician.

I take the comments loosely, with a grain of salt, and the invitations to speak to kids keep coming in.

But, here is the reality of it all - you can justify many of the overly romantic images of being on the road, looking out into a sea of corn in the Midwest or the Pacific ocean on Highway 101; travelling from sea to shining sea, this plane and that airport. But. . . I say it's not for everyone, this being a road warrior or road dog or road slut.

The truth of it, for us musician road dogs, is maybe that we are all just mutants spawned from some other realm who can take the punishment of traveling away from our comfort zones. Or perhaps it's just a wandering strand of DNA within us that can't keep still. Whatever it may be, I think, in the game of it all, the ones that make it are the ones that can stand the insanity of traveling.

Here you go, 24 Hours in my Life:

1. I live three hours away from the nearest airport (so you do the math if I have to be there an hour or more before my flight.)
2. I get a ticket outside of Espanola (not the first or the last) for speeding: 75 in a 35.
3. Delta had weather's insanity in Atlanta so there was no way I could catch my connecting flight to Charlottesville, Virginia. . .  (Damn, who flies to Charlottesville?) And. . . as usual, I never look at where I'm going until the last minute.anyway.
4. Delta tries to get me on American but they can't. An American teller can book me on United though. "How did she doo dat?"
5. So time is ticking and American sends me to United, but United can only book me to Chicago but they send my luggage to Charlottesville. (At least something will make it to Charlottesville, if not me.) PHEW, at least I don't have to lug it around. (Have I ever told you I have to carry at least three pieces of luggage on every trip: musical instruments, clothes, and swag.) Then United books me on American from Chicago to Charlottsville. Again, "HOW DID SHE DOO DAT?"
6. Meanwhile "time keeps on tickin', tickin', tickin' into the future." I run up to the boarding area 20 people deep and I always get frisked as I hear my name over the intercom. Ugh. Maybe I look suspicious. Well, do I?
7. I get to the gate and they've closed the doors on me. After many colorful words I chill.
8. I get re-booked on another United flight that leaves two hours later. My luggage is headed for the Midwest. My luggage is going places, baby. I, however, am not.
9. After a layover in Denver I finally get to eat an over-priced weird wrap of some mystery.
10. I get in to Dulles. I'm picked up by the limo two hours from the hotel in Harrisburg. . . BUT!
11. They take me to the wrong Marriott and by now its 1:00 am. Someone dropped the ball and wrote down the wrong address - not the driver's fault. I get a room there anyway. The driver knows me from some sweat lodge circle of friends that gave him my CD. Go figure. You know you're really famous when a random driver from nowhere America knows you.
12. After a bag of chips and a soda (Ugh, I know - vending machines) I fall asleep wondering what the hell happened to the America I knew.
13. 4:00 am in the morning and I get a call from the amazing sweat lodge driver who decided last night to go and get my bags for me. Unfortunately, no luck. The airport was closed.
14. Sweat lodge driver lives near the Charlottesville airport. (Stay with me, stay with me.) The driver has another pickup in Harrisburg where I'm staying at a wrong Marriott so he decides to check on my bags of his own accord. Somehow he feels he needs to do this for me. Anyway. . .
15. Long story short my luggage, on American from Chicago to Charlottesville, never made it in. She got re-routed last night to Pittsburgh because of extreme fog conditions. So my bags are in Pittsburgh and they won't be in till this afternoon. Meanwhile I wait for the producers to pick me up to check in at the original hotel I was supposed to be at.

Did you follow all this? I'm not sure who traveled more miles, me or my luggage. Silver lining: the kindness of a sweat lodge driver. But. . .

Heads up kids, you still wanna be a rock star?

Love,

Mirabal

More on the Obsession & Death to Minnetonka. . .

"You see moccasins were the key to the rebellion, without a good shoe it might not have gone so well. . ." Po'Pay Speaks

Well I have been on a roll with my new sewing projects and I've had a few orders too! Cool. . . The measuring is going pretty well; pricing them out is another thing. UGG (no pun intened)! Heehee.

A bit of history. . .

I started last year with several blogs inspired by some barefoot runners, some training I was doing in the backwoods, and some extended long runs I took on the Pueblo trails wearing my own handmade designs.

This particular video above shows some of the step-by step process of making what I call "the Taos Pueblo Moccasin" ™. Its design is familiar to the southern plains tribes: Cheyenne, Kiowa, Ute, etc. . .

Since the people of the Pueblos traveled far and traded with each other, we borrowed techniques and styles, however, I say that loosely knowing that there really isn't a type of "Taos moccasin" that we wear socially and ceremonially, except for this particular one style of Moccs.

The picture below shows the "Kaibabs" - the moccasins worn by many of the people of the Pueblos from down South. This design of moccasins, although very unique to the Southwest, was not a particular foot apparel worn by the Taos people.

Southern Pueblo typical style

So that brings me to my latest work - I'm planning to take on some serious clients. I'm going to work with different clients who are interested in good moccasins; real moccasins that can be worn for all occasions, from daily wear to hunting to dinner parties (heehee). I get tired of seeing people trying to make moccasins that a Pueblo Indian would never wear.

We, as Pueblo people, have an amazing and rich culture like I have said before and I feel we are lucky to have watched and learned from our elders how to create and share simple knowledge and love through design.

"No Minnetonka UGG spoken here..." (Grandpa accent)

This is what America calls Moccasins

Back to work.

Love,

Mirabal

Obsession with Moccasins. . . or Grandma's Curse

I believe that all my work explores the human desire or obsession for utopias, and the structure of all my works is the search for utopias lost and rediscovered. ~ Marguerite Young

Grandma was obsessed for sure. She dabbled in everything from word searches, to crocheting, to bead work, to weaving belts, to making corn seed necklaces, to pillow making, not to mention she always had an unfinished puzzle on a cardboard box. Oh! And moccasins. Not sure if I left anything out, but I'm sure I did.

Me? I wasn't that good at corn seed necklaces because I wasn't patient enough and I couldn't sit still long enough to learn how to crochet pillows. Haha.

However, I did have enough backbone to sit with my Grandparents to learn to make moccasins with buckskin and cow hide soles stitched with deer sinew. My Grandpa would carefully strip the sinew and pop them into my mouth until they were soaked, then I would pull them out and twist them into a thread. Grandma made moccasins for all of us but mainly for herself because those were her town shoes; the nice white washed moccasins that she and the other grandmas wore to town.

Tools of the trade

A pair to be stitched

Finished and ready to be laced

Here is a video of my stitching (bragging) and above are some photos of my creations of the last couple weeks. (A bit of a secret - this is what makes the women smile and blush. Heehee.) I have made five pairs of Taos Pueblo style maiden boots; a wild and intricate design that only exists in the northern Pueblos - mainly in Taos and Picuris - and worn only by the female. Any moccasins you have seen in confirmation to date do not compare to these. A very amazing and unusual design. I just call them Maiden boots. . .

Love you all!!

Always creating and exploring,

Mirabal

Extinction, Langauge, Muerto's corazón; Petróleo de Medianoche

"What could be more lonely than to be enveloped in silence, to be the last of your people to speak your native tongue, to have no way to pass on the wisdom of your ancestors or anticipate the promise of your descendants. . . On average, every fortnight an elder dies and carries with him or her into the grave the last syllables of an ancient tongue." ~ Wade Davis

I've noticed in the last few weeks how fragile a culture can be. . .

"The tighter you try and hold on to something the easier it is to slip away from you."

Many Pueblo languages are falling out of use and being replaced by others that are more widely accommodating, such as English in the U.S. or Spanish in Mexico and South America. Too much TV and not enough face-to-face communication; the old people can talk all they want, but if the young don't know the language and don't have a community that reinforces that language, the talk becomes useless. And even more it becomes the very dying breath of the culture.

The younger generation feels the pressure the most. I see them struggling with wanting to please themselves while being seen through the eyes of the culture. The elders dumbfound them with their stares.

Unless current thoughts and mobility are reversed, these fragile languages will become extinct within the next century. Many other Native languages are no longer being learned by the new generations of children or by new adult speakers; these languages will become extinct when their last speaker dies. Many languages today have only one Native speaker still living, and that person's death will mean the extinction of that language; it will no longer be spoken or known by anyone.

No more songs.


No more stories. 


No more people.

This is the fragility of my culture. Sometime back someone asked me if I lived in a condo in L.A. I said, "yes, just north of L.A." (But not that L.A. I meant Los Alamos. Haha....)

I could never leave this place and all its evil and love; everything I have done that's worthy has come from this place one way or another. Sometimes I get sick thinking of what I know and what I have seen because the old timers that had taught me those ways are gone. The Pueblo communities are awesome; there are very few cultures that have survived the way that we have.

Cell phones, computers, television, and movies often send a message that discourages the maintenance of community values, however, much of it is our fault. We don't want to humble ourselves and that is easier said than done.

It is not more glamorous in that other world; the world that has no apparent connection to the Pueblo community and its elders and traditions.

It astounds me that we have come this far with what is still intact. It is true evidence that the strength of the people and culture of the Pueblos are still at the core essence of these communities.

I don't fear loss and I don't fear extinction. Let it come to us full force. I value what I have and what I know, not what has gone away. That's already too late; that loss was not mine.




HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

JUST REMEMBER WE'RE ALL IN IT TOGETHER.

The lost of one man is the lost of us all. . . and the wellness of one is the wellness of us all.