Red Willow Voices

No Time & All Time - Ecuador

2012-02-22T04:00:00.002-08:00

It's hard for me to figure out where to begin. It's been a radical couple of weeks and, as usual, my life doesn't take the low road but instead continually takes the high road in more ways than one.

I guess some random brain thoughts might help the process along. The communication around my trip to Ecuador was difficult from the beginning. It was hard to figure out who was actually in charge of the festival and names were being dropped but e-mails weren't answered and I almost canceled everything altogether. Flight arrangements were chaotic because we were all coming from different parts of the country. Nine tickets were bought by three different entities. Some had horrible flying experiences traveling all over the United States and then off to South America.

Robin Abeles, bass player; Joel Fadness, drummer; and myself went a few days earlier to meet up with David West, a guitar virtuoso from Otavalo. David was adopted as a baby and grew up in Canada, however, he still has a connection to his roots.

Below is the basic schedule. (You can Google these locations and it will tell you how far they are. However, it isn't so... add at least another two to three hours for the exact time. Heehee).

Feb 12th Travel Day:

To Quito - left in the AM in a snow storm from Taos to Albuquerque. Arrived in Quito at 11PM. Not my favorite place. Cool, yes, but I dislike cities wherever they may be.

Feb 13th Off to the City:

Of Puyo In Quechwa - it means " Cloudy." True to its name it followed an amazing river called the Pastaza which eventually leads into the Amazon river. This is, by far, the furthest south I have ever been. Winding through tunnels up and down through a misty haze; amazing greenery underneath a canopy of jungle.

We met with some people from the Amazon; small, beautiful people that look like they could be from HOPI. Haha. . . We had some ceremony with them and then went off to a show in a small community center. It seemed everywhere we went people knew us.

The elevation was much higher and colder than the city. This was the first show we did with David and it was well received. The people from the Amazon danced and played music before we came on. Another late night - the first of many.

Feb 14th - Morning Of:

A driver came from Canar some 8 hours away to the South. We stood out in the rain waiting for the SUV. But, no! It was a small 4 door KIA-looking-thing. Arghhh!! The best remedy was laughter. I named our driver Henry and he maybe spoke to us twice in the whole day. We stopped at some hot springs in Bana. There were hot springs everywhere and I love hot springs ojo caliente muy bonito. . .

We ate fresh fruit constantly and drove for hours and hundreds of miles. As far as you can see there were hills and mountains all being planted or harvested. Old women and men walked up mountain trails, leaning hard up against terraces filled with corn, beans, potatoes. It was like going to heaven - especially for me.

There will be a follow up to this so stay tuned to find out what Andes money is and what Robin and Joel ate that made them so sick.

More to come, hope you enjoy the video.

Love,
Mirabal

Running. . .

2012-02-15T04:00:00.000-08:00

As you read this I will be in South America and I will have my running shoes and corn with me. Hopefully I'll have enough strength for the shows as well as the partying. (Heehee.)

I have been running for many, many years longer than I can recall. It started when I was a boy listening to the story that the old timers would recite about the messenger warriors who would run for days from village to village.

The messengers were the elite, they spoke differently, used hand signs, and read maps in the night sky. Their feet were like rawhide and they had lungs like a deer. When they couldn't run it drove them crazy. Some say they were star people sent here to run the old tracks of their ancestors when the world was still dark. We don't have those societies anymore.


Bad-ass feet

I ran because I had to and it made me feel good.

I run.

I can.

I run because I can.

When I run I feel a freedom that nothing else has brought to me in all my years. I can't go a month without running. It drives me crazy too. I dream about it; I read about it; I wake up wondering what trail to take. Maybe it's like being on a drug or some opiate; it's never enough. Sometimes I run in the morning with the sunrise and then again in the evening with the sunset.

Then sometimes I run for hours on end, following the sun, stopping and running until I feel the pull back home (or until I feel that starving freaky feeling when your own muscles are eating at themselves. Heehee) Blood sugar gets low quick on the sunny days.

Harvest run

Taos Pueblo is at an elevation of about 7,000 feet. Any direction from there is either up or down, nothing is really straight ahead. From Taos Pueblo East or North everything is up. Massive thick mountains that tower above you. Then there are the sagebrush plains that start at 6,500 feet to the West rolling in and out of washed out gullies and ancient lava rocks.

I've been places on the reservation where probably only a handful of hunters have been. We have an amazing piece of land but we only traverse a few miles in and out past the cattle-guards to the town. Some never do see what's behind the burnt ridges.

I have always thought that I was running from something: my father, my mom, my work, my dishonesty, my faults, my doubts. . . the list goes on and on. For sure my running was sparked from some element of running away from something. Because of all these psychological states I don't believe running is a sport for me, instead it's actually a food for me. Strange? Yes, but if you think about it, it makes sense. (I don't run competitively though. I don't like all the strange things that go along with it, but I might consider ultra marathon running 30, 40, 50, 100 milers. . .)


More bad-ass feet

Running isn't just physical, it's a mental and psychological vitality workout. You use your brain to its extreme; where you run, how your body feels, where to step, etc. . . Not once can you let your guard down in the places I run. Your brain even plays an important role in running fatigue. Physical training involves improving your brain's resistance to fatigue as well as motivational techniques such as visualization, positive thinking and disassociation. Running has been one of my best kept secrets to success. . .

Consider a run around the block. Hey, why not? You've got time. . . You've got time if I've got time.

Love,
Mirabal

I Won't Write About Vampires... Blog Graffiti on Trust & Valentines

2012-02-08T04:00:00.000-08:00

I trust that you're well. I trust you. Trust me. Trust the system. Trust accounts. Trust statements. Foreign trusts.

What do you trust?

Me? I trust nobody but don't be sad, I don't even trust myself at times and when the going gets tough it all boils down to trust.

Do you trust your body enough to know that it's in perfect condition? No.

Do you trust that the man or woman next to you will have your back? No.

Can you trust your parents? No.

Can you trust that your money is safe in that bank? No.

Can you trust that the food you're eating is real? No.

Can you trust the government (heehee, had to put that one in)? No!

Trust is a painting interpreted a thousand different ways and don't put me in the corner and ask me to trust you, you will never know me. I will never know you. Can we trust that we ever really know anyone?

We're living in a strange and finicky world and I think at the bottom is the essence of trust; we're all loving people and when we get pushed into the corner we turn into spiders that can strike a venomous and deadly sting.

I figure the best thing to say is, "I'm a spider." And that's never gonna change. Then, at least we will all know that's what you are. At any given time that spider will strike, and her excuse is none, she always said she was a spider.

And just say, " I'm a player." Then, in the end, when you scam on someone else you don't have to make an excuse. You were always a player and that's never gonna end. Learn from a spider. Just be honest if you suck. . .

Never say "trust me" unless you're dying cause then at least that person knows you died.

Trusting that she will be faithful? Never. And that horse will kick you and step on you and never once say sorry.

Trust that the medicine you took this morning is helping you? I doubt it. It causes more problems than it solves.

You play near my queen I will sting you. That's nature. Trust me.

We all must learn our trust from nature. The only thing we can trust is nature. Maybe that's why we're destroying her because we can't trust that she can take care of us. But we must trust she knows us all.
We can live with the trust of death because we know we will die. How and where we can't trust, just know you and I will die.

Trust that meat will spoil. Trust that a baby will cry. Trust that you can't breathe under water. Trust that fire will burn you. Trust that you'll get hurt. Trust that you'll get over it. Trust nature. Trust her unpredictability. Trust your natural instinct.

This you can trust me on, I will not write about vampires. Heehee.

I will not meet you at a Valentine's Day dance. Trust me. I will trust you understand me.

You can trust everything is just an excuse when it comes to love.

Love is a ghost sighting of Big Foot or the Loch Ness monster; few have ever seen it but many will talk about it, like me. . . Trust me.

Trust me...


Trust me, I saw him!!!

Chicago Sun: Po'Pay's Revolution of the Young

2012-02-01T04:00:00.000-08:00

Once again I'm posting from some random coffee house with WiFi (no, not a Star#@$%s if I can help it.) It's a sunny day in Chicago and I have been on the road over ten days now with the amazing string quartet, Ethel. I met them a few years ago through the Brooklyn Academy of Music's presentation of a show called "Truck Stop" and last year we did a collaborative show called "Music of the Sun" (more about them later on the blog). We started 2012 with a couple shows in Harrisburg, Virginia and then went up to Michigan for another couple shows, then ended on Saturday night in Chicago. Please check 'em out:

I had a day off on Sunday and yesterday I rehearsed Po'Pay Speaks being performed by a group of kids from the Talcott Fine Arts and Museum Academy and it was amazing to see these kids rehearse for a show I have been working on for the last two years. Most of them are young women who have memorized different passages of the show and recite the monologues by taking turns.

Although I don't do any of the show, I do play and sing in some portent places. The show is pretty intense (if you haven't been following my blog it's about the revolutionary hero, Po'Pay, of the 1680 Pueblo revolt). I always saw it as just being done by me or another man. However, to hear it from these young women it makes just as much sense. Maybe even more. I think the new revolution will be birthed, not by men, but by women. Women are getting tired of men just talking about and not doing shit about it. . . REVOLUTION!! Haha. I think the Dalai Lama agrees with me as he has said, "The world will be saved by the Western woman."

Never allow a person to tell you NO who doesn’t have the power to say YES. Eleanor Roosevelt.

I will post some stuff soon about the show and take some pictures and such. Stay tuned.

On a slightly related note, it's only a matter of time during these travels before I crack due to bad tasting Chai. WTF! Put some ginger in it, or at least a pinch of chili. I'm so sick of the concentrated B.S. Lazy, lazy, lazy. There's gotta be something better than what everybody is drinking, and how hard is to get Almond milk? Anyway, don't get me started on my morning drink!

I have to say I sure do miss my girls too. They're growing up so fast. I wanted to dance with them Sunday but I was here and they were there.

Wild Kona

Too smart Masa

Thank you to my Mom and my sister, Denise for taking care of them. (My hunting is changing. I will be home soon. . .) Here are some pictures of them a few years back.

Kona Sunrise, Masa Rain and Aspen Dawn

Love to you all and those that you cherish and love.

Travel Hell: And You Say You Wanna Be a Rockstar

2012-01-25T04:00:00.000-08:00

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:

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.)
I get a ticket outside of Espanola (not the first or the last) for speeding: 75 in a 35.
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.
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?"
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?"
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?
I get to the gate and they've closed the doors on me. After many colorful words I chill.
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.
After a layover in Denver I finally get to eat an over-priced weird wrap of some mystery.
I get in to Dulles. I'm picked up by the limo two hours from the hotel in Harrisburg. . . BUT!
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.
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.
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.
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. . .
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. . .

2012-01-18T04:00:00.000-08:00

"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

2012-01-11T04:00:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

"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.

Christmas Eve Bonfires & the Followers of The Virgin Mary

2011-12-28T04:00:00.000-08:00

Most Pueblos have a Christmas Eve procession; a hybrid form of celebration engulfed in the amalgamation of sights and sounds from ancient cultures such as Africa, Spain, America, and, of course, the Pueblo. It's "savagely formed rituals of old."

The Grandmas would always say, "we're much better followers of the conqueror's religious ways than they are."

The Pueblos have been inundated with so many influences it's amazing that our existence as an actual culture still has precedent. To see us you begin to realize that the world can use a bit of knowledge from how well we have taken in and accepted many forms of culture without destroying each other.

EXCERPT FROM RUNNING ALONE IN PHOTOGRAPHS; Robert Mirabal 2008

Rhythmic chanting of church hymns sung in Spanish. Interspersed with a cadence of a dry cold cowhide drum being beaten by a little half-breed Mexican drummer boy. Through the immense crowd of people, the young pueblo children danced. They could barely be seen in front of the windblown canopy that created the backdrop. In a running pattern the kids kept moving quickly; their flowing hair, ribbons blowing in the cold wind. Eight or nine men were singing loudly for the children. One kept time with the black, smoky Kiva drum. In the cold he seemed to be the only one sweating. Underneath the glowing awning was the statue of the Virgin Mary. The effigy rocked back and forth on her pedestal, appearing so life-like in the surreal, swirling, dream stage of the village. Burning pitch wood staffs lit the way for the dancers. Giant matchsticks carried by tiny pueblo men, whose faces grimaced from the heat of the bonfires on one side, the other wrapped in a blanket from the bitter cold. Glorious Mary sat on a little platform with a white sheet awning over her to protect her from the elements. Plump pueblo men bundled up in their new blankets transported her. Like a spring bride she wore the colors of winter. The wind pushed her; she swayed from side to side as the pueblo men held tightly to the wooden-carriage. She made her journey around the plaza appearing so clean, calm and oblivious of the smoke, the pinon pitch embers from the huge bonfires, the coldness of winter--even the calamity of the world seemed not to discourage her on her once-a-year voyage of dancing around the village. She was just a statue that felt nothing; albeit in her nothingness thousands and thousands of people felt her power, she came out to see her nation like the beautiful saint she was. She floated above all in her pueblo like an apparition in white. . . Pueblo Indians became faithful followers of her faith with a much greater commitment than their conquerors, who carried her to Taos Pueblo hundreds of years ago, from a place far away from the south.

Then as quickly as the wild, dreamlike event started, it was over. Another Christmas Eve at the pueblo passed for the tribe of people. It was gone. Just like the dying embers in a fireplace. It was over as swiftly as it began: people dispersed, the big bonfires flickered, pushing puffs of smoke signals off into the winds that now were joined by snow. . . Curious on-lookers sat in the cold frankincense and pinon-smoke-scented church, watching the men and women of the pueblo carefully assemble the effigy in place. They fattened her dress, along with her veil, while they softly spoke under their breath in an indiscernible language. For the remaining few it could have been 1701 still waiting for their prayers to be answered. . .

HAPPY HOLIDAYS. . . A Wish List

2011-12-21T04:00:00.000-08:00

As a boy I was really, really into make believe. I had an obsession with toys soldiers and action figures. I would hold war games all over the corn fields and ditches. Still, to this day, my mom or sister will dig up a tiny, faded, old-green army man still in his fox hole waiting for the little Indian boy to rescue him from his duty.

Maybe it sounds odd to some who didn't grow up like many of us in the 1970's with no television or electricity. Our next best thing (if we were lucky) was to get to go on the weekend with Mom and Grandma to town to get some laundry done and get groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. We would sneak out of the soap-smelling-humid laundry room to do some window shopping next door, though the owner wouldn't let us in without our parents cause we were all "thieves." Heehee.

If my Grandma or my Mom were feeling a bit like splurging on us they would take us next door (which was the TG&Y - a little store which had everything from toys to Fruit of the Loom's to everything in between.) We didn't have a car so we would wait for the Torres brothers from Seco who had a home-operated taxi car business. They had two station wagons that would accommodate many people and take them from the Pueblo to the plaza in Taos Town. Nobody felt poor, and nobody felt rich, we were just people living with the conditions that had been laid out for us.

Winters were the hardest times in village, but somehow we managed; sometimes with dirty clothes and sometimes with fried potatoes and tortillas until Saturday. I was lucky 'cause my Mom was a pretty lady and the Hispano drivers liked to wait for her, they didn't want her to wait in the cold. Heehee. . .

At Christmas time we would draw names in our class and I drew out my favorite girls name and I wanted to get the best present for her and that weekend my mom didnt take us to TG&Y so I couldn't choose my present for her. Sadly, my little sweetheart ended up with a gallon of Peach scented bubble bath and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. Ugh, I felt so embarrassed, but some kids got loaves of bread, Biscochitos and homemade slingshots. . .

Anyway, my friends, I love you all so much. We're still here and our bellies are full and our homes are warm, but mainly our hearts are the ones that must stay always loving and forgiving.

Be the best you can be this holiday season and if it means being an Asshole may you be the best at that too.

HOHOHO!

Thanks to the wild, wild internet I was able to find pictures of some gifts that I remember receiving from my Mom on Christmas Eve including P.L.'s bubble bath.

Movable Apache with skimpy loin cloth - this one got stolen.

Yep there was a Custer Doll - this one is buried in the Pueblo somewhere.


Cowboys and Indians doing what they do best.

hope you had fun!!!

Love & Blessings,

Mirabal

Winter Cooking on the Old Wood Stove with a Partial Smile. . .

2011-12-14T04:00:00.000-08:00

I have always been a cook, or rather, I dabble on the stove. Maybe it's because I've been around women, incessantly, since I was a baby boy.

Never too timid to hear idle gossip around a cook stove along with the aunties; I learned some of the inner workings of their livelihood. . .

"The smell of food makes a man want to work and the smell welcomes him home. It's a powerful medicine and the grandmas and aunties and mommas teach the girls the secret of food."

However, in my case, it was me instead of my sister. Heehee. I was a quick learner too and watched our Grandma use the old stove to cook all our meals.

I love the aroma and taste of food from a wood cook stove. It has a magical source and a sensibility that is unheard of in these days when microwave ovens are the streamline of consciousness of a so called better tomorrow.

We want our food NOW!

Microwavable hot-pockets and popcorn just creep me out. . .

How can something so important to the inner makings of our whole being be just nuked without a second thought, we even nuke water! Call me old-fashioned but I just feel so much better when life is slowed down a bit; when a piece of pinon-wood burns down to embers and heats up Grandma's stove to feed my DNA.

I'm not much of a meat eater, however, some days my TYPE O blood goes mad like that dude in Twilight. Heehee.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way so share some ideas in the comments so that we can create a Village; a Pueblo in this cyber world that can help the psychotic few become the inspiration.

I say, "KILL YOUR MICROWAVE!"

The video is done in a vintage style.
The song is called Earth Mother from the
Grammy Award winning CD
Totemic Flute Chants.

The Seclusion of Winter & Other Desolate Suppositions

2011-12-07T04:00:00.000-08:00

The moment we start to delve into our deep senses most of us try to distract ourselves immediately from the odd sensation of being desolate or being in a state of solitude.

It's a strange unbalanced place to be when the only bewilderment is the ringing in your ear or the humming of afterthoughts from a thousand days. To volunteer willingly to seclusion is a way to find the inner source of strength, doubt, as well as fear and the smallest comprehension or idea can turn into hell's desolation.

You want to reach for the phone to call someone, however, you defend the idea and try to claw your way through the crevices and lakes of fire. To be shuddered away like summer clothes in a wintery world without any means of up-to-the-minute conveniences is a profound and rewarding notion.

It only takes the willingness to go beyond your demons. Every time you reach for diversion, disregard it and follow the road less likely to be the passage. After all, in our loneliness in the corners of our minds lies in waiting our worst enemy - which is not a fire breathing Dragon from days gone by or the gruesome Minotaur - but the overly judgmental demon stricken you. . .

After the battles and barrage, come back home to Me where the once lonely fire is now the beautiful warmness of eternity for the weary soldier.

Enjoy the beautiful solitude which is you.

Have a wondrous time with your soul and feed it some good stuff!!!

With love and honor,

Mirabal

Quiet Time at the Pueblo

2011-11-30T04:00:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up to an amazing sunrise, most of the night was spent listening to a huge easterly-wind sweeping into the Pueblo. I had taken a few weeks off from running so the last few days I have been back at it - pounding out the miles and the body and legs feel good, but the muscles are tight. Ugh love and hate the feeling.

Taos Pueblo the A.M. view from my humble winter abode.

Well it's another year going by on the home stretch and all I gotta say is, "WHAT A YEAR!"

Damn, somewhere near June or July I was wondering when it would all end but we all just keep dragging through the war torn valleys and eddies of our lives; no rest for the wicked.

I only have a few things left on the table this year to deal with, (actually a lot of things), however, the more pressing details are the last couple of shows.

I have been in the Pueblo for the last two weeks rehearsing and honing up on the Po'Pay Speaks script. It's amazing how much you forget in a short few months. Maybe it's my age. . . What was I just talking about. . . Huh, huh? Heehee.

I've gutted most of the shop to let it rest for the winter and I turned it back into what it original was - living quarters. The Pueblo has no electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, or phones (except my Blackberry - Heehee) However, it's the ancient way to live and I feel it's much better for the mind, body and spirit. There are no electromagnetic waves going constantly, oozing through your body, and it's the perfect way to re-configure life and try to catch up on some much needed rest. But, wow the dreams are intense in a place where your ancestors laid their heads down.

What are electromagnetic waves my hippie friend, Bob?

Oh hey Moonbeam how's it shining? Well artificial light, microwaves, x-rays, computers, TV, and radio transmissions are all kinds of electromagnetic waves. They are all the same kind of wavy disturbance that are slowly killing us...

Anyways, just in case some of you didn't know what electromagnetic waves were, here it is in laymen's terms or hippie jargon. . . Whatever. . . it's stuff that never lets us rest, it's just STUFF! (By the way, that's my cousin and her hippie friend.)

I wanted to write this blog as the first of many other blogs I'll write on living in the old-village for the next few months. As I laid down looking at the stars through my skylight last night I thought about the accounts of my year; the death of friends, the loss of my faith, and the strength of my body and mind. I missed many ceremonies this year but I look forward to next year with vigor and excitement.

I just wanted to say Thank you!!! from the bottom of my heart. . .

You are all in my prayers and I hope and pray that you can find a place where no man or woman can take away or distract you from finding your true calling. Dream a good tomorrow and bless yesterday goodbye.

Northwest Taos Pueblo by old man Dance Bows house.

Nothing is simple and alone. We are not separate and alone. The breathing mountains, the living stones, each blade of grass, the clouds, the rain, each star, the beasts, the birds and the invisible spirits of the air — we are all one, indivisible. Nothing that any of us does but affects us all.
So I would have you look upon this thing not as a separate simple thing, but as a stone which is a star in the firmament of earth, as a ripple in a pool, as a kernel of corn. I would have you consider how it fits into the pattern of the whole. How far its influence may spread and what it may grow into . . .

Frank Waters from the novel The Man Who Killed the Deer.

Love,
Mirabal

Black Friday / Black Death / Blackmailed

2011-11-23T04:00:00.000-08:00

Once again we've come upon the Holiday Season; a deeply religious time for us all when we visit our church of choice by going to the mall. "Black Friday" is the spiritual name which has been given to that Friday following Thanksgiving Day.

It is not a term of endearment.

"Black Friday" officially opens the Christmas shopping season in America (not to be confused with deer, duck, or wild boar season in Kentucky, although there is a fine line.) Just like squirrel season "Black Death Friday" usually brings massive traffic jams and over-crowded sidewalks as the downtown stores are mobbed by consumer zombies from opening to closing.

I never really got into the whole ritual of black-outs, close-outs, and black-Fridays; they sound too much like streets that have been closed down because there's asbestos in the air or a nuclear fallout zone. I just don't walk down those alleys.

So what did we do before gigantic box stores?

Where did we go before Wal-Mart-Fall-Apart?

When did we become what we said we would never become?

We used to build civilizations.

Now we build shopping malls. . .

"DANG RIGHT! Just build one on top of that 1,000 year old ancient ruin."

The following are just some of the crazy accounts that "Black Friday" has spawned already. Maybe as time rolls by they will just be considered fatal accidents that go along with the season (much like the random tree-stand accident or the accidental shooting of his cousin by Bubba on the opening day of elk hunting in Colorado.)

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, get the hell out of the way..."

Unruly devil spawn shoppers at a store outside Ohio quickly flooded in the doors at opening, pinning several employees against stacks of merchandise.

Nine shoppers in a California mall were injured, including an elderly woman who had to be taken to the hospital, when the crowd rushed to grab gift certificates that had been released from the ceiling.

A mob of approximately 2,000 insane shoppers in New York waited outside for the 5:00 a.m. opening of the local Fart-Mart. As opening time approached the crowd grew anxious and when the doors were finally unlocked the crowd pushed forward, breaking the door down, and trampling a 34 year-old employee to death. The shoppers did not appear concerned with the victim's fate, expressing refusal to halt their stampede when fellow employees attempted to intervene and help the injured employee. The shoppers complained that they had been waiting in the cold and were not willing to wait any longer. Shoppers had begun assembling as early as 9:00 the evening before for a barbecue!!!. Even when police arrived and attempted to render aid to the injured man, shoppers continued to pour in, shoving and pushing the officers as they made their way into the store. Several other people incurred minor consumer injuries, including a pregnant shopaholic woman who had to be taken to the hospital where she later birthed a ten pound baby bouncing demon shopping spawn.

During Black Friday 2010 in Wisconsin a woman was arrested outside of a Toys-R-not-Us store after cutting in line, and threatening to shoot other shoppers who tried to object.

A volunteer in Georgia was stabbed by a shoplifter.

An Indianapolis woman was arrested after causing a disturbance by arguing with other Wal-Mart shoppers. She had been asked to leave the store, but refused.

A man was arrested at a Florida Wal-Mart when other shoppers waiting in line for the store to open noticed that he was carrying a hand-gun (Colt - Peace Maker) and reported the matter to police. He was discovered to also be carrying two knives and and a grenade.

A man in Buffalo was trampled like the days of ole when doors opened at a Target (pronounced Tar Jay) store and unruly shoppers rushed in, in an episode reminiscent of the deadly 2008 Wal-Mart stampede.

HEE HAW!!

Well it sounds like Turkey hunting season in Montana to me.

Thank God we're living in a country where the Big Sky's the limit, the Big Ass stores are open late, and you can now shop in bed with your crusty shorts on.

Have we really come very far or is it the wild, wild, wild west once more!!

"KILL THEM ALL, LET GOD SORT THEM OUT!" Wild Bill Hiccup.

Have fun on the BLACK FRIDAY RUSH!

This video excerpt below is a good example of where AHH MERICAH might have got the "Notion", or the "Gumption". A good example of the phrase "trampling in our ancestor's footsteps."

Holiday Press Conference and What's Next for MIRABAL

2011-11-16T04:00:00.000-08:00

Note regarding this week's blog: Many times I have been asked if I will be doing another show like Music From a Painted Cave? And if I will be working again with the band or with dancers? And are you gonna do another CD? And so on, and so forth.

So I will answer some of those questions in a Mirabal-esque press conference:

Stage Direction:
The atmosphere is a conference room in any hotel chain in the country, stains on the gray carpet, and seats smashed together. There are a dozen or so reporters; some with cameras and some with notebooks and tape recorders. Some just came for the free continental breakfast of watered down orange juice and stale wheat bagels. Mirabal steps in with his little entourage of goons who scour the scene. Mirabal gives his trademark smile, looking a bit ragged with puffy eyes.

Let's begin. . .

First question comes via our live Facebook stream from RAVEN LOOKS GOOD.

"Will you be doing another tour of Painted Cave? Please come to Hoboken."

I will not be doing Music From A Painted Cave. Why? Because the cost of booking and managing a large company isn't one of my interests any longer. When I created the show it was, in part, to inspire other artists to follow suit, (although I haven't seen much of it, just some crazy imitations on YouTube.) Turkey-feather bustles, made in china bead work, and Shami loincloths just don't cut it for me these days.

Next question. You in the back. Do you have a question? Then don't raise your hand. You, the blonde lady in the front. . . Yes, you.

''Do you think you will be doing shows with the band, I sure hope so. I saw you in Seattle and I was. . ."

Okay, I do miss the band and I love traveling with Banda Loca de los Gitanos. Que-malo. But that too can be expensive. Until this country, and its political notions, can start to see the clearer picture about artists (and get their heads out of their asses) then solo-performances, or guest appearances with my trusty brother, Computer-MAC, is the show.

Most decent performers who are young enough (or insane enough) will have to be much more clever in the future in their expressions to the masses if they want to survive financially.

Okay, next question. You in the over-sized wolf t-shirt with the paste on ponytail.

"When are you gonna do another CD?"

You mean record another project?

"Yes, sorry I didn't mean that, I was just wondering when you were. . ."

Okay, okay, I would like to "do" another Johnny Whitehorse CD, however, that's up to the record label, Silver-wave records. And if I'm gonna do some recording I will offer that for sale via my website (which we are expanding and re-configuring so that fans can download songs, as well as whole CDs and all the new stuff will be there. Stay tuned.

Next?. . .

(Silence)

Next? Speak up, can't hear too well!

"What's next for you since you have a couple weeks off?"

Good question. . .

Getting ready for winter; slowly getting wood, slowly getting the fields cleaned up, slowly getting things done at the Pueblo house, slowly getting ready to move in so that I can start memorizing and honing up for PO'PAY SPEAKS again for the winter season. There aren't that many shows - three, actually. However, I have to get in shape once again, beautifying the body and the mind so that Po'Pay can be a rewarding experience for all.

I have been on the move since September after the show closed in Santa Fe. East coast, West coast, Florida, and the Southwest - covering many places in a short period of time. Most of my weekends were spent traveling. There is a demand for what I do, however, the cost sometimes isn't worth the wear and tear on the mind and body as you already know since I have blogged about the many accolades.

Last question. You. Yes, the skinny man in the back who's jumping up and down in his Wilson Phillips t-shirt.

"I would love to see the show Po'Pay Speaks. Where and when?"

There'll be two in Taos which will be free. One will be in Albuquerque. I'm trying to stay near home. Check out the website for details.

Oh! I will also be in the art studio being clever-minded and creating many different, unique sculptures, amulets, and wearable art for the holiday season, as well as next year's line. I also plan to work on perfecting my moccasin designs. The art studio is where I'm most excited to be as the year winds down. I love to create. If you come to visit I will be in the Pueblo where the shop is in the summer. If you're not nearby check out the shop on Mirabal.com and get some holiday shopping done early.

Thank you for stopping by for the press conference and I better be getting down to business.

Stage Direction:
THE ARTIST KNOWN AS MIRABAL walks out. People linger, some take snapshots, some just stand looking odd, one man stands weeping in the corner while an elderly couple from the Bingo hall next door scam the organic muffins. The reporters converse a bit, wondering aloud once again about Mirabal in the studio.

Did he actually answer questions or make more questions. . . That is the question?

I Used To Smile. . . My Hunting Has Changed

2011-11-09T06:33:00.000-08:00

Was talking to a good friend of mine about how life can easily take you where you want to go and how all it takes is to have the positive notions to get there and a bit of knowing what you want.

Most of my life has been spent with the mental struggle of success - what is my success, what was my success, where is my success. As most of you know, growing up on a reservation isn't the best place to find positivity in all its glory; you have to dig a little bit deeper than most to succeed. However, once you realize that to dig is all you need to do to survive and succeed in all the negativity of a tribe, you realize that your climbing up, not digging down, and you see the faces of family and elders in a brighter light. Eventually you see yourself not faking a smile but actually reaching for the stars with a brightened, enlightened smile. . .

At times I have missed my smile. . .

I want to be more positive, not like all the what's-new-on-the-positivity-page-New-Age-Oprah-Winfrey bandwagon; not necessarily a role model either, but a positive individual who can do anything. Just a simple man.

I want this smile again

Here's something I wrote many, many years ago:

Pumpkin had a pellet gun that his mama got for him at Gambles. Junior had a daisy BB gun that his papa got for him at Wackers. I had a sling-shot that Grandpa helped make out of an inner tube and an old oak prong. My pockets were full of just the right size stones, Pumpkin had enough pellets, and Junior had two boxes of BB's and some in his mouth. We went hunting for anything that moved: birds, horses, cats, silver cans.

We were under a big chokecherry tree waiting for the robins to come back, and chewing on some berries, when Pumpkin picked up an old bucket to sit on and a picture of a big, black, naked lady fell out of it. We just stared at the picture for a spell and then grabbed the book, sat closely around each other, and stared silently as our mouths dried from breathing too hard and deep. We had never seen anything like that. The closest we'd seen was probably when Miss Plumb, our intern from Boston, went to our gym class with short shorts, and a T-shirt without a bra on, to show us how to use the trampoline.

The heat of the summer day subsided and we were still underneath that chokecherry tree. We laughed, embarrassed and blushing at all the naked ladies. We turned some of the pictures into targets and shot them with Pumpkin's pellet gun and when we hit them near a certain area we laughed out loud and giggled.

We wondered. . . we wondered. . . we wondered about women from then on.

We tore the book up, however, we saved some pictures under rocks and old stumps so we could see the pictures privately. I saw Junior fold one up and put it in his shirt pocket. We were walking home when Pumpkin made some excuse that he left a pellet box behind and he went back to the chokecherry tree.

We didn't kill much of anything that day, we just watched and watched, wondered and wondered. I would never look at my teachers and classmates the same ever again. . .

My hunting had changed.

1996 young is as young does/ youth is wasted on the young (whatever, I had fun - heehee)

So, life changes and goes on.

At times my hunting was about many things from music to women to farming to women again. Hahaha. Just all depends. However, in my life now I can see the positivity of life's changes and tribulations as I've heard before, "The only thing consistent is change."

Cousin Ben snickering, one of my favorite kiva elder Blowing Medicine, Frank Samora, me, and my Mom Geri Mirabal.

Once again, my readers, I love you all.

Strive to be the best in anything you do today, as I will do the same. You can't change the past you can only learn from it and move on.

Be a WARRIOR everyday...

Mirabal

La Familia De Los Muertos: Get Some Sleep Dude!

2011-11-02T04:00:00.000-07:00

Okay everyone this blog is for your viewing pleasure. Halloween is my favorite holiday (well it's considered a holiday in the Mirabal household.)

Got home Saturday afternoon from Tuscon (my flight out of Arizona was at 5 a.m. - Ugh!). After the 2.5 hour drive from the Albuquerque airport I immediately got into designing, as well being the make up artist, for the Mirabal familia de los Muertos ensemble. Finally went to bed, way past midnight, then started again on Sunday then again today. . .

Halloween. Halloween. I love the fact that you get to scare the shit out of people and you get good stuff for it. . . When I was a boy I used to be so scared of every little thing and now, as an adult, I can be a kid but without all the freak-out state. I love my little family, they're just as crazy and wild as me.

These were from the last couple days. Happy Halloween!!! Always strive to be the best you can be - even with a scary mask. . .

Boooohahhhhhaaaaaaa!!!...(cough, cough)

Jet lag and still going for the ghoul

Hermanas de los muerto

Legal Alien Mirabal

Dawn and Masa

La Familia Mirabal de los Muertos

I'd love to see your Halloween pics over on the Facebook page.

33,000 Feet in the Air, The Cure, & Too Much Time Suspended

2011-10-26T04:00:00.000-07:00

I usually fall asleep as soon as I sit down in my seat on a plane.
Window seat and, if I'm lucky, an exit row.
Not interested in small talk.
Not interested where the person next to me is from.
And if the plane goes down I would rather not know how many kids he or she has or even the new rag-dog they own.

Prada shades.
Earplugs.
Then a Bose headset on top of that.
Dead to the world.
Zombies in the air.

However, during this last four and a half hour round from Dulles to Albuquerque, I didn't want to sleep. I looked around and then plugged into the bullshit that is pumped in from the plug in the seat. The channel was an homage to the 80's.

THE CURE!

Yeah! Doing my secret eighties fist pump.

"JUST LIKE HEAVEN"

I haven't heard that in awhile.

MY MEMORY GAVE ME A KNOCK-OUT-BLOW-TO-MY-BRAIN AS I LOOKED INTO THE SURREAL WORLD OF THE PLANE. I pictured the 80's mullets, alligator shirts, torn jeans and big hair.

But in those days youthful style was rare at airports. It was odd to see a generation of kids at airports. When I was just starting out in my music career I thought I was the coolest ever. When kids my age were trying to figure out what sorority or fraternity to join, I was a jet-setter traveling all over the East coast, West coast, and then was off to Europe, Russia, Japan. . . I'm proud to say I knew Hell's Kitchen when Hell's Kitchen was still hot.

Traveling is not what it used to be.
It's not so fun unless it's your first time.
After that it's all down hill.

Hmmm. . . Have I lost my sense of wonderment?

You began to see the reality of the insanity of travel. It used to be a classy experience and everyone would dress up to travel in those days. Now, except for the overly-stuffed-boring-business-man look, you only see the occasional elderly person dressed in their finery. (Mainly because the last time they flew to see the kids in Hoboken was in 1987.)

Before 9/11 it was fairly nice to get on a plane. You could easily carry on a six pack of beer and security would just say, "Have fun." Nowadays it's almost better to travel with a plastic bag over you with all the clothes you have to take off so you don't set off the alarm. I guess you can blow up a plane now with a bottle of shampoo and some mouthwash.

The accommodations are the same, however, the prices have reached new heights for the same ancient, smelly, caved-in seat that was installed on August 27th, 1987. We're flying on planes older than Pinto cars when cowboy president Reagan was fumbling with the world; before CNN and the other station; before the World Wide Web engulfed us. Now everyone and their cousin can stuff themselves in those seats, smearing their stretched out tramp stamps and baggy khaki shorts. While our asses have become BIGGY-SIZED, the seats have stayed the same; measured to spandex-wearing-skinny-ass-dream makers.

The Cure still looms in my head.

I open up the seat pocket in front of me to find the same 'ol creepy wish-book with all it's cool contraptions and inventions. Makes me wonder who's actually ordered a lava-lamp you can activate with your Grandma's brain-waves or that cat feeder you can telepathically control 1,000 miles away. . . Heehee.

There's also the safety card that is written in 20 different languages - except English. Then we get the comic version of how to turn your seat into a floating vest. Let's not forget the "Barf Bag" (the ones we used to make puppets with) that serves as a nice wax-lined sleeping bag for tequila mixed with bad airport junk food and a touch of turbulence. I've seen that once or twice, however, that's another story.

What else is in the pocket? The monthly magazine of very, very clean people in clean places living the so called "American Dream."

No wonder why the whole world hates us. Their first impression of us as they enter this once-proud country is a rude awakening indeed; America is splayed out in that magazine as an overpriced watch sold by some actor airbrushed to perfection (whatever that means) and Doctors smiling in their ads about bigger and better boobs and maybe a new ass to fit the seats of the 1979 Pinto with wings. WTF!!

No more free peanuts.
Elephants have it better than you,
just stale, flat coca cola,
and twenty dollar miniature shots of old guy booze.

And. . . I just found out that you now have to pay extra for the EXIT row seat. Who's gonna pull the handle down on that 55 pound EXIT door to set us free if we accidentally land on top of a mall?

I got lucky though. I still have a smile that makes wandering-eyed-unknown flight attendants still give me an Exit row seat for free. I wanted to sing to her. . .

show me show me show me how you do that trick
the one that makes me scream she said
the one that makes me laugh she said
and threw her arms around my neck
show me how you do it
and I promise you
I promise that I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you!!!!

Here's some shots of me when I was a young man traveling around the world. Listen to The Cure if you want while you check 'em out.

I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH. . .

GERMANY

RUSSIA

ITALY

MIAMI

GRAND CANYON WITH REYNALDO

JAPAN

LONDON

SANTA FE

PARIS "I'll run away with you. . ."

Mother and Child and Happy Birthday

2011-10-19T04:00:00.000-07:00

Woke up a few mornings ago reflecting on my age. I never thought I would have made it this far. I think to myself, I turned 45 years old. As a kid I thought that was pretty damn old, not quite a dirty old man - although striving for it. . . Hee hee.

Even though it's in the middle of nowhere, the Pueblo used to be a powerful place of integrity, honor and commitment to the spiritual when I was a little boy. A hell of a lot more back then, in fact. Now, just 'cause you have long hair you're an Indian of today. But back then if any elder saw you doing something bad they had the community's permission to reprimand you on the spot.

A couple times I was given a spanking; once by the neighbor for throwing rocks and almost hitting her and another time for having a rodeo with the other neighbor's pig.

The Pueblo walls had ears and eyes. Like if Rita and Ralph were on the wall snagging on a full-moon night the whole Pueblo knew about it by breakfast. We were so connected that you could recognize most people, even in the dark, just by their walk or their laugh.

Because I grew up in the middle of nowhere it was a tricky feat for Peter Pan and Santa Claus to find me, and adobe fireplaces can be deceiving. I was a kid that you would have liked; chubby, big brown eyes, and sun-cooked brown skin with wind-burnt cheeks. Pictures show me in the fields with Grandpa and my dirty face (even in black and white you could see the dirt), walking a horse for Grandma, or staring at my Great Grandma drinking down a goat milk concoction.

My Mom worked during the week and went out on weekends with her friends. I spent most of my time with Grandma and Grandpa walking the cottonwood lined trails, hunting for mushrooms in the fall, building pinon wood forts, and waiting for cottontails. My grandparents aged well with no complaints, no diabetes, no weird words like cancer, no car, just feet and a shawl that Grandma would carry her groceries in from town. No fear.

When I was sixteen I was a senior in high school and I would ditch my sixth period class to shop at the local grocery store, stuff my backpack with cans of food, and then catch the bus back to the reservation.

I don't know what this all means but maybe it helps to rewind to some moments that make us feel lucky. Age isn't fun. That said, it's actually sad, especially when the elders you knew as a boy are dying away; bad food, bad sugar, bad blood. I always thought I was lucky when I was with them. I thought they would always be around us singing those old songs. I never knew how important their thoughts were until this year. Now their voices are clearer to me, there's a truth in memory if we look carefully.

I heard this song on the radio and it gave me a bit of a melancholy space in my heart.

Happy Birthday to me,

Mirabal

Should We Reconsider Columbus Day?

2011-10-12T04:00:00.000-07:00

So our government has deemed Christopher Columbus worthy of remembrance.

But take a few minutes and watch this video:

FiveFingaz and a few friends are asking if we should be remembering a man who committed heinous crimes against the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean, against millions of Natives in the Americas, and one who set the stage for the slave trade in the New World.

They're asking us to reconsider whether this is a man we want to honor.

There's a long held myth, with no substantial evidence, that Columbus called the first native people he met, "Gente en Dios" which means "people of God."

I wonder, on this Columbus Day, if that truly is a myth because he certainly didn't treat the Natives as "people of God".

What are your thoughts? Should Columbus Day be changed to a nationally recognized Indigenous holiday? I mean, you still get the day off. Heehee.

Love,

Mirabal

After the Harvest, Taos Mountain, and Radical Women. . .

2011-10-05T04:00:00.000-07:00

Taos Pueblo has finished the ceremonies today and many other Pueblos in the Rio Grande Valley are still at the tail end of their harvest ceremonies.

Many of us connected in different ways this past weekend and we have not slept too much in the last few days. My Grandpa used to have many visitors come from Oklahoma, Cheyenne, and Osage and it was awesome when he was still alive. Back then even old men ran the race track.

We're beginning to harvest some of the ground crops; beans, melons, stuff that can easily be frostbitten and, in fact, we've already had our first frost.


Some Pueblo watermelon insulated by Taos red beans.

Every morning the Pueblo people look at their mountain to define their day; a sort of astrological/weather mood gauge, like one of those mood rings you find at a fair that's always black (even when you're in a good mood.) But this glance at the mountain predicts the mood of the day. For example, partly cloudy and a chance of hysteria, or mostly sunny and psycho. . . Heehee, whatever.


Early snow on Taos Mountain/ Mah Whaa Loo.

Some say that the mountain either accepts you or it spits you back out into the "real world" (or Santa Fe, heehee. . . wherever or whatever that may be.)

Mabel Dodge was one who didn't get SPIT OUT. Actually she became as radical as the mountain can be. Who knows, maybe the mountain chose her. Mabel, more than anyone, brought art and more than a little bit of scandal to Taos.

Mabel Ganson Evans Dodge Sterne Luhan was an heiress from a Buffalo family. She was looking for love and found it in Taos in 1918 when she met Tony Luhan, a Taos Pueblo Indian and, be warned, there's a bit of Tony in every traditional Indian man you meet. Heehee. . .

Mabel actually started out in Santa Fe in 1917 where she joined her third husband, Maurice Sterne, but after moving to Taos they divorced and Mabel stayed on; building a house blending Pueblo, Spanish Colonial, and Tuscan styles. There she met Tony Luhan who appears to have been married at the time. Not to be deterred, Mabel married Luhan and set about inviting D. H. Lawrence, Georgia O'Keeffe, Ansel Adams, and more to her large eclectic home. Almost everyone who was anyone eventually showed up in Taos, and in the Luhan house.

The house was often home to feuds, affairs, and yet remained a flash point of creativity The locals weren't quite as enamored with Mabel and felt that she was playing at "going native" and some even believe that she slipped Tony's wife some money to disappear. Whatever the case may be a sleepy town like Taos needs a bit of Mabel to stir up the pot.


Tony and Mabel cruising in their Hot-Rod.

I have a love hate relationship with Taos some days. Aahhhhhhhh! Other days I just go with the flow. . .

Love to you all on this fall day,
Mirabal

San Geronimo Feast Day

2011-09-28T04:00:00.000-07:00

We're gearing up for the San Geronimo Feast Day in Taos this weekend. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about here is a little history of the day from La Plaza:

"San Geronimo Day is of great importance to the Pueblo. Named after St. Jerome, the patron saint of the Pueblo, it was originally a fall trading festival at which neighboring tribes would gather. After Spanish colonization San Geronimo Day was institutionalized. It incorporated the original rituals with those of the church. Among the ceremonies that have always been a part of San Geronimo Day are the morning races along the race course in front of the north building, and the afternoon pole climb. Running has always carried great religious significance at Taos Pueblo."

[Robert here: If you know me, or have read my blog, you know how important running is to me and you definitely know of my love/hate relationship with it.]

"For the Indians of Taos Pueblo, life has been a continuing struggle against external forces which have come into Taos. As with all Pueblo tribes, Taos Pueblo was agrarian, and was raided by nomadic Indians such as the Navajos and Apaches. Later, Spanish Conquistadores and settlers, French traders and trappers, and finally, American settlers exerted their influence on the tribe."

[Robert here: Just making sure you're still paying attention. Awesome family pictures below.]

"Although the interaction between the Spanish colonists and the Indian pueblos was often one of conflict, the early Spanish settlers and Pueblo Indians were also allies against attack by marauding plains Indians. The people of Taos Pueblo have miraculously survived all outside influences and have still retained their essence. Taos Pueblo maintains its tribal sovereignty through the Tribal Governor's office, which consists of the Governor, Lieutenant Governor Secretary and Tribal Council. The tribal war Chief and his council are responsible for all of the tribe's lands outside of the walls of the main village, while the Central Management System is the liaison with the Bureau of Indian Affairs and answers to the tribal governor and council. Some members of the tribe work in Taos, others work for tribal programs, and others are employed through the considerable tourism economy of the tribe. Taos Pueblo is famous for its drums and micaceous pottery. In addition, modern art forms have evolved from the traditional ones, including sculpture in clay and alabaster, and painting."

[Robert here: And, of course, I'm also a contributor to that "art form" at my Pueblo shop and Mirabal.com working out of my Grandma's old house which I blogged about last week.]

"The Indians of Taos Pueblo remain fiercely independent of spirit and mind. They continue to speak Tiwa, which is still an unwritten language, and strive to maintain a balance between their traditional way of life and the modern world."

[Robert here: Why yes, yes we do.]

Sept 29th & 30th - SAN GERONIMO FEAST DAY: Arts & Crafts fair, evening vespers, traditional foot race, traditional pole climb. Sept 29th - Noon; Sept 30th - 8:00am - evening.

Love,

Mirabal

The Pueblo Shop (Grandma Crucita R. Mirabal's Old House)

2011-09-21T04:00:00.000-07:00

As long as I can remember Taos Pueblo has always had curio shops for tribal members to sell their handmade items to the seekers, otherwise known as "touristas." Most of the shops are owned by the individual families and I have been pretty lucky to have inherited a traditional home that is on the outskirts of the main plaza - it's all about location, location, location, eh?

My grandmother, Crucita Mirabal, was a powerful, clever woman. She made and sold different handmade items; dyed corn, squash seed necklaces, postcards, and other little trinkets in front of her home. Some days she made the traditional oven bread and prune pies and the Texans loved them. (The blue ugly balloon-looking tarp to the right in the video below is covering one of the traditional ovens.)


The Mirabal shop located on the northwest corner of Taos Pueblo	.

My great-grandmother was the last family member to have lived in this location where she raised her kids. As a young boy I took care of this house; shoveling snow off its roof and, in the fall, replastering the mud walls getting ready for the winter. It used to be connected to the house on the right side of it and it was used for corn and various dry storage. I took care of this property because it was my Grandma's and she gave it to me because she felt I was the only one taking care of her in the past.

In 1993, I opened the Pueblo shop/home to sell my flutes, cassettes, and a few other items that I, and other family members, were making. As the years passed, and more tourists started to venture into the Pueblo, we changed the shop to accommodate their needs. We now have more flutes, more CDs, jewelry, books, pottery, and miscellaneous native gifts that the visitors wanted.

In 2010, the shop changed one more time to accommodate, not just the tourist, but myself and the way I am living today. I do not play any of my CDs from the battery powered boombox anymore, nor do we have the old "Robert Mirabal"vibe happening. The old shop felt like a shrine to Robert Mirabal (Oooooooh UGH!) I had a very hard time connecting myself to it when it was all me, however, now with my new farming and sculpting endeavors, it feels good.

In 2009 I started creating amulets, sculptures, and new styled flutes. We also decided to carry supplies; hides, skins, furs, and moccasin making materials for the Pueblo people who make handmade items. It's now kind of like a mercantile.

The old photos of my ancestors on the wall remind me every day of my duties as a Puebloan man, as well as a father, and that I need to be a true humble artist. I enjoy being in the Pueblo shop now and meeting the visitors that come from afar, and those that are near, to exchange stories, to teach, and to learn.

The Pueblo shop - Yellow Aspen Cloud Productions and/or Mirabal Native Gifts is open every day from 9am to 4pm. If the Pueblo shop is closed, you can always visit the online shop for any of my work at www.mirabal.com - that shop is always open!

Trail Running and Other Insane Notions. . .

2011-09-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up.
It knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed.

Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up.
It knows that it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve.

It doesn't matter whether you're a lion or a gazelle
when the sun comes up you'd better be running.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever, more like sloths, heehee. . . run with me.

"The only reason I take up jogging is so that I can hear heavy breathing every morning." Badum-ching. Ooooh.

"Running is real and relatively simple. . . but it ain't easy, and you're pretty much as dumb as a weed blowing in the wind."

"Now if you are going to win any battle you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do. The body will always give up. It is always tired - morning, noon, and night. But the body is never tired if the mind is not tired. When you were younger the mind could make you dance all night, and the body would never tire. You've got to make the mind take over and keep going." Patton said this, but personally I think drinking tequila has about the same effect.

"No doubt a brain and some shoes are essential for running success, although if it comes down to a choice, pick the shoes. More people finish marathons with no brains than with no shoes."

Okay, so now you know some of the weirdness a trail runner goes through, or at least now you know some wierd quotes. I hate running and I love it; I hate being stiff the next day, yet I love it so, so much.

We runners are a breed apart; part monkey, part Bigfoot, part wild boar, and part Indian. Running has kept me sane and relatively insane for all these years. Anyway, have fun at least being in the woods.

Love,

Mirabal

Back Home: Home Is Where The Weeds Are

2011-09-07T04:00:00.000-07:00

I just got back home and wandered around the places that seemed familiar in my mind. However, there are weeds in the garden, weeds in the bean fields, weeds around the house; everything has become overgrown. I guess the gardener hasn't been around. Ugh. Can't get help today (ha ha - wish I had a gardener) . . .

Coming home is a state of mind.

You either feel amazed or overwhelmed and whichever way you look at the scene it can become sad or you can feel lost. I usually go into feeling lost. I seem to get lost in my past, recollecting times when I have been gone many, many months.

This time wasn't so bad but it has been a little over a month since I went to New York and began Po'Pay performances. Of course this has been during peak growing season for corn and the like, including weeds and willows that sprout up even in the deepest drought. Since Po'Pay started it has rained in Santa Fe and in Taos almost every day so that means weeding the garden at least once a week. So. . . I'm about four weeks behind. Ugh, we shall see what I get this year in terms of a harvest.

Musings on the Status of Things:

My red beans are doing great. Some watermelon are doing very good at 7,000 ft. elevation (I am a bad ass; surprised for sure). However, the corn is in a sad state-of-affairs, though this year's crops were for seed cultivation, so whatever I get will be a success. I will keep you informed as to the status of the harvest.

There have been many, many bear sightings around the perimeter of the Pueblo since we were in such a fierce drought this year. No rain means very few berries, plums, etc.. for them to forage on and so they have wreaked havoc on fields near, and or around, the river basin, Bears aren't too friendly when they're hungry (neither am I, for that matter.)

The Pueblo is the Pueblo. I went across to my Mom's to see the village but not much has changed in over 1,000 years, let alone during my four weeks away. I'm not expecting it to have an instant makeover. There was a funeral today so the Pueblo is closed. The rain does fierce damage to adobe houses if the roofs aren't kept up. It's sad how many houses I knew as a boy are slowly becoming piles of rubble. But that's a story for another time.

Everything has changed in my mind and that's what happens when you come home after a tour. You see people and places and they seem to stay the same. People living their lives and you just press "play" and things go forward. You can really see how easily a few months can seem like two days. The same cop is at the same old corner; the same dog sniffs the same old roadkill; the same complaining; the same guys are at the same old bar laughing at the same old joke.

In more pressing news, I have two new white hairs and I'm damn proud of them. I live life the way I want. I sacrifice daily my heart, and push my body into magic that is so unbelievable. My mind wanders and gives in a hundred times a day to my thousand ideas. I can't live any other way. Sad at times, however, beautiful most of the times.

One day is not enough so live life as strong and magical as you can. Everyone can kiss your ass when they see you walking out into the world feeling free and never looking back. Never rewind, always look straight ahead.

Thank you for all those of you that have loved me all these years and I hope I can touch some of you soon.

Welcome home my little baby soul.

Love,
Mirabal

Po'Pay Review

2011-08-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

Folks are asking how the Po'Pay Speaks performances are going. When you're neck-deep in it it's hard to tell. I mean, I'm a bit fried, it's consuming and amazing at the same time, but it's hard to tell what people are thinking.

The Santa Fe New Mexican posted a review so I thought I'd share some bits of another's viewpoint of the show:

"Mirabal has created a poetic and thought-provoking show with co-writers Stephen Parks and Nelson Zink."
"He [me] is dressed in cargo pants, high-top sneakers, and a Doors t-shirt." [heehee]
"The monologue is part history lesson and part drama, but it is not a diatribe."
"Mirabal is an engaging performer who combines song, dance, prayer, and humor into a script that jumps around in time. A hallucinatory episode describing an encounter with Jim Morrison of The Doors may tip a little heavily into Taos hippie mythology, but as Mirabal points out, 'The seekers helped keep things alive.'" [Yep, it's true.]

There's lots more and you can read the full review here.

Or. . .

Better yet, you can come see it in person. Performances will be held from August 16 - September 4 at the Lodge at Santa Fe. For more information, please contact Danette Lovato at 505.242.8355 or purchase tickets here.

Love,

Mirabal

Hotel Rooms & The Tribe of the Road

2011-08-24T04:00:00.000-07:00

Here I am once more living in another hotel room. . . If I know I'm staying more than three days I try to find the one room that's furthest away from the lobby and furthest away from any kind of foot traffic and elevator freaks. However, since Santa Fe doesn't have but one elevator in the whole county at least I'm free from that noise.

A few funny and wild recollections of being on the road & staying in hotel rooms:

I once totally forgot where I was. It freaked me out. I jumped out of my bed and slammed into the wall thinking that was the way out.
I was once awoken by my band mate in the hall 'cause I forgot my room number. I knew which floor I was supposed to be on, but didn't know my own room number - just too burnt out.
Another time my key worked in a room that was already occupied (usually I'm walking into hotels when everyone is asleep.) So, I walked into this room that smelled like grandma perfume and sweat. Ugh. To make it worse a hairy man sat up in bed and scared the shit out of both of us.
Tables turned another time, however, when a girl was pounding on my door accompanied by a hairy football-playing-looking-monster and she yelled, "Open the #$%^ing door Tommy!" I stepped out and scared the shit out of them. Hahaha

It's all pretty hairy, really.

But I do have some tips for the next time you find yourself in a random hotel somewhere.

Don't ever use a black light to see what you're actually sleeping on. You'll regret it.
Don't ever unplug the ice maker.
I don't recommend jumping from the balcony into the swimming pool in L.A.either.
I definitely wouldn't skateboard naked in an empty parking garage in Florida. I most definitely would not let your skateboard lead your naked self into the hotel lobby.

Hotels are the most lonely of places and you'll meet some of the most lonely people as well. However, we hotel-goers are our own tribe and the bags under our eyes give us away; another suit and tie burnt out beyond belief, another dirty rock star with Prada glasses and, of course, the lost pizza deliver guy.

New York has small dark rooms. In Florida everything smells like a moldy washcloth. New Orleans has sleazy, slimy rooms. L.A has small towels and large cockroaches that want to sell you your own shoes in the morning.

This life is not for everyone. It is for the road warriors that find solace in their own crazy livelihood. We move from hotel to hotel and we all miss home in ways that are much too strange to even deal with at times. But you're so used to being alone that dealing with any more people other than the hotel staff kinda gets you edged and, after a week or so at home, you feel the urge to travel once again. Sad.

The food is stale and we all crave the weird and unusual. There are few things that scare us. However, the things that scare us are much more friendly in the real world than in ours; R.V. people, kids, striped shirts and khakis. Unkempt hair, shoeless, wrinkled clothes, tattoos, piercings, and eye makeup basically sum up the tribal gear of my surrogate tribe.

This week at home in Taos we will start a ceremony that will end on the first week of October. It's about reconnecting to the source and then into the harvest time. I miss my brothers and sisters dressed in their best and getting the horses ready, singing songs of the lake, praying, dancing, eating. I miss my people. I miss them every time I drive off into the wild blue. I pray for them with every show as they pray for me with every song.

I met a girl when I was 18 years old on the road doing summer stock in Oklahoma. Her name was Fran and she was an amazing dancer from Virginia. "Mirabal, you're a beautiful loser!" she said as she threw a cassette at me from her red Firebird. Then she drove off. I have no idea what she meant but she was a traveler like me and she carried her own ketchup behind her seat. She said her family owned a hotel in Martensville, Virginia on some highway on the Appalachian Trail. Maybe I will find it someday. Haha, I hope not!

Here's the song "Beautiful Loser" from the cassette:

Happy Trails.

Love, Mirabal

Po'Pay Returns. . .

2011-08-17T04:00:00.000-07:00

. . . Or was he ever really gone?

In Pueblo culture, we believe there are certain people who don't actually die, they just kind of evolve into something else.

What if Po'Pay has been here the whole time? During the World Wars? During the Great Depression? "Living for the past 331 years in a cornfield north of Taos, analyzing life, traveling the world and spending time with the likes of Wovoka the Paiute prophet, Jim Morrison, Kit Carson, Georgia O’Keeffe and Mabel Dodge Luhan." (Santa Fe Reporter)

It's hard to believe the show has started.

It's too late to turn back now, eh? (Heehee.)

I truly hope to see you there, it's been a long time preparing, writing, memorizing, rehearsing, embodying - a lot of -ings there.

To read more about the show click here and here.

Performances will be held from August 16 - September 4 at the Lodge at Santa Fe. For more information, please contact Danette Lovato at 505.242.8355 or purchase tickets here.

Some Things I've Learned From Growing Corn

2011-08-10T04:00:00.000-07:00

Patience!

Seeing the world as a child and an adult at the same time. Seeing corn through innocence; like a child, but a damn smart one.

Corn requires support at its roots. As it grows and reaches knee height you need to build up dirt support around it so it doesn't fall over. We all need support as we reach towards the heavens.

Fearlessness.

Corn Maidens love to play rough, especially with boys.

Corn can only be beaten down by wind, rain, and the elements, for so long before it bends. Be careful who you let beat you down.

Despite the elements and the eventual bend or break, after a bit of intimacy, corn will stand straight up again.

Corn needs balance too: Sun, heat, rain, food, water. Balance is key. Too much of any one thing will kill it.

Corn is an overachiever. Next to the other plants in the garden, corn extends to the greatest heights just by being itself.

Weeds will try to take corn over, tangle it up. A bit like negative thoughts and negative people.

Planting corn is meant for community. Even from thousands of miles away help can come for your crop when you ask for it.

If you're sad or sick, the corn maidens take away what ails you.

My life doesn't quite work without corn. Even if for some reason I lose a crop it still, in death, teaches me in a profound way.

What does growing corn mean to you? What "grows corn" in your life?

Water, Ice Cream Earth, and Po'Pay

2011-08-03T04:00:00.000-07:00

Po'Pay Speaks: "Today there is treachery once more, what we honored the most is destroying us, perhaps we don't honor it like we should, never in my life did I think I would say BAD FOOD. Today food is killing us..."

Can you imagine not being able to swim at your favorite swimming hole, take a bath or shower, or even quench your thirst?

Watering a corn field is weird - it teaches you patience. Too much water and it takes the earth from root structure; not enough water and it becomes a useless endeavor which can sometimes take days. Water teaches you how to be clever with it, teaches you about flow and gravity, teaches you about how your soil is reacting to the unexpected source. You can ruin a field by watering too much as the flood takes away the top-soil and leaves you with clay and gravel so that you have to restart the process of collecting soil that still holds nutrients.

Recently I received the gifts of a corn harvest from Ecuador - massive corn grown on the ancient terrace fields of Cusco where the top soil is about 10 feet deep with barely any rocks or gravel. Whereas, in Taos, there's more clay than sand or good earth - which I call Ice Cream Earth (so good you can eat it.) We often say, "Don't put two big rocks near each other or they will make a thousand baby rocks by next year." In fact, we are millionaires in our fields full of rocks and gravel. I imagine an Inca farmer would think, "how the hell is this guy growing anything on rocks?"

My middle field is so infested with rocks that it looks more like a highway project than a corn field. My Grandma Crucita was happy that I got that land and said that, as a young girl, she picked so many rocks out of the field that she dreamed of rocks for years after that. Wanna torture a kid? Make them pick rocks from a field, ugh.

In Kenya I hope I never see this kind of drought.

When we're in a drought as we are now; when there's a lack of water and many other people are fighting to get just a little more, these places become hard as adobe bricks and your skin bakes to deep brown. The words "savage tan" have another meaning altogether.

Corn maidens dying in the heat.

You can see the poor corn maidens shriveling up before your eyes in the heat of the midday sun. You can feel their pain and if they could walk away they would lift up their roots and say, "Later. Call me when you have some fresh juice to savor." You train them so that they survive on the most minuscule amount of H20 and hopefully make it to the late July/August ceremonial monsoons. (Yeah, we actually have monsoons.)

You water and it barely travels from plant to plant. Little ants laugh at you as the parched crispy earth sucks as much of it as it can to maintain itself. Places where the water doesn't reach turn slight brown at the fold up to pale-gray and you can lose a patch in less than a week.

"Water can make you cry," the old timers say, and it was because they didn't have a local super-supermarket to buy fresh produce in an instant. If you lost your fields it was because you weren't clever enough; no excuses there's enough road maps to follow. If you're at the field early, or late at night, you might see the growth because that's when the corn maidens stretch and reach the most. The majority of people only see them in the daylight hours when they huddle up for another day in hell.

I heard some Pueblo boys say they're not planting this year because there's no water. Bullshit talk! The grandpas would make you pick up rocks for a week with that kind of talk. Corn root is fragile and not deep so the right amount and cultivation of the root base is needed. But the corn maidens also need the heat, it's the balance that is the key.

Po'Pay Speaks: "A long time ago corn and us sat down face to face and struck a bargain and said what we would do for each other, plant seed then corn maidens will start to sprout, then they become tall and straight with long green arms, then the ears form those are their babies, and they become women, mothers, corn mothers, we bring her into our homes and she feeds our children's children's children."

The name for ice cream in Tiwa is Bpaw-Tsem - "water cold." That's it - nothing more to be said.

Water.

If you don't know it, learn it. If you learn it, you can survive in any condition of life; business, personal, corporate - 'cause it's the basis to all creative notions and actions.

Po'Pay Speaks: "You want your tomorrow, you must dream it, I taught you that, but you forgot. I told you not what to do, but how to do it, and you forgot that too. If you have nothing it's because you dream nothing."

Po'Pay in New York

2011-07-27T04:00:00.000-07:00

Po'Pay Speaks: "331 years ago I made the first revolt in this place you call America such is my authority and respect. They call me Po'Pay which means ripe summer pumpkin, or squash whatever you prefer I was named after food, I live now in the cornfields in the mountains but not for long so plant your corn field soon so I'll come and see you before I go."

Well it's been about a year since I last saw the wild, wild streets of New York, and seeing them through the eyes of Po'Pay, the character, is even more wild.

Nothing is the same when the big apple starts heating up. People, especially, are a bit more on the edge (and, mind you, that's ON THE EDGE for these already amped-up people.)

Horns are louder and more frequent. Dogs say hell no to the walk and take craps indoors (gross). The pavement starts to stick to sandals and boots and it's just plain miserable.

Unless you're Po'Pay. If you're Po'Pay you start to wander the streets at night to stare at the sweaty faces; you lean up on street corners and watch as the rats huddle up near a leaking fire hydrant talking trash. Miserable high heels give hell to chunky thighs and sweaty lies. This is like a scene from a movie I saw in my mind when I first heard of Hell's Kitchen (they don't call it that for nothing). I think I just saw Papa Legba smile a shiny gold-toothed grin at me as he was sealing the deal on some soul on 43rd who looked a lot like Winehouse. Yes, it's hotter than the women here and too many white men in Khaki shorts bring the ratio way down. The steamier the streets, the darker the skin gets. Hair gets a bit more wild on the back of Italian men and the bleached blond tiger-suit-wearing chicas. There's nothing that compares to New York City on a very hot, humid summer night. We're all in it together; cross pollinating notions and ideas; combining our efforts in random thoughts of world peace and cracked head smiles.

I'm trying to prepare for Po'Pay and it's working in a magical way. I see the world from the 29th floor.

Is that how I've been seeing the world?

At a distance?

Away from the hum?

I sneak down into the grotto; the heat and the stink. Trees grow in a cage of concrete; water comes from tanks sitting on top of roofs; beautiful fruits and flowers appear from somewhere. "?donde esta's la sandia de?" He says, "No se?...puedo decir, la tierra?" he laughs a great laugh. Yeah maybe it comes from the earth and maybe it's grown by some farmer but nobody knows for sure in the vast metropolis of sight and sound and food...

Po'Pay Speaks: "Most pueblo dances are about food, at the bottom it's about food and how to get food food food food, But food isn't as scarce as it used to be, so the dances don't mean the same, 331 years ago there was a lot of hungry people that knew what the dances meant, I'm not saying the fat ones of today don't understand ceremony it's just that in my time we sang and dance what we ate, good crop, good hunt, good food, good dance."

Every street has something to sell you, but nobody really knows where it came from. Some brag it came from Italy, others say Ecuador, Guatemala, Colombia. We imagine this tiny farmer gathering our mangoes and limes in some exotic pristine setting. We picture in our minds another world that isn't full of sirens, cars honking, an endless mind altering hum, so we consume and consume and, every night, after everyone falls asleep, (nobody hits pillow to head in this place) the food and flowers magically appear the very next day for us to feel alive once more.

What have we become?

Who are we?

What are we dancing about?

What are we singing about now?

Po'Pay Speaks: "Much longer and the corn maidens will leave us. Much longer and we'll forget our home and how to live. For 331 years you have borrowed my belief, lived on it. Now you must have your own revolution! This I tell you. Without belief you are No One."

The Preparation for PO'PAY SPEAKS

2011-07-20T04:00:00.000-07:00

NOTE FOR READER: Visit this site and enjoy the song Po'Pay's Runner in a different browser as you read this blog. It'll be like peas and carrots.

Onward. . .

Po’Pay was born around 1630 in the San Juan Pueblo. His given name means "ripe squash" in the Tewa language. A religious leader, Po'Pay was responsible for the vitality of his people’s spiritual life. He knew of his people’s suffering under the Conquistadores, who forced them to provide labor and food. The Spaniard religion also pressured them to give up their way of life and to adopt Christianity—those found practicing their culture or religion were tortured and sometimes executed.

In 1675 Po’Pay and 46 other Pueblo leaders were convicted of sorcery; he was among those flogged, while others were executed.

"THEY SAID IT WAS BECAUSE WE TALKED TO STRANGE GODS, GODS THAT SPOKE OUR LANGUAGE AND HEARD MINE."

In 1680 Po’Pay organized the Pueblo Revolt against the Spanish. He and his followers sent messengers to each pueblo with knotted cord. One knot was to be untied each day, and the revolt would begin on the day the last knot was untied. However, word leaked out of a plot being planned. Spaniards arrested two messenger runners from Te-Tesugue Oween-ghay and the pueblos were quickly notified to accelerate the revolt. The attacks began on August 10. The Spaniards took refuge in Santa Fe; the besieging Indians cut off their water supply but soon permitted them to leave the area. The Pueblo Revolt helped to ensure the survival of the Pueblo culture.

"21 BALD HEADS WERE KILLED AND SO WERE 400 SOLDIERS AND SETTLERS WHO STAYED TO FIGHT IN SANTA FE."

This is but a brief history of this great man. Blogs to follow, up to opening night (August 16th, 2011), will revolve around my preparation for my new one-man show PO'PAY SPEAKS.

Po'Pay Speaks will consist of 18 performances held at the Heritage Hotel's Lodge of Santa Fe beginning August 16th through September 4th, 2011.

A 55 page script = insanity. Arghh! I have ten more pages to memorize, the working of the traditional fields to actualizing the old Messanger Paths connecting pueblo to pueblo. Not much eh?

Join me at the show or in prayer, thoughts of love, and honor for our Puebloan culture,.

"WITHOUT CORN THERE IS NO SONG, WITHOUT SONG THERE IS NO RAIN, IF CORN DIES WE DIE."

Mirabal

Adventures in Writing

2011-07-13T04:00:00.000-07:00

I have always been intrigued by the written word since I was a boy. Many families in the pueblo grew up without electricity or running water, mine included, which made me realize how much there is to say and how much there isn't to say, if you get my drift. Story-telling and the written word were integral parts of our lives.

In the pueblo there were winter accounts, hunting stories, family remembrance stories, and versions from every Aunty that walked into the house. If you had a good memory you stored all of these words in your small brain from the many, many tales of the ancients and the wild, wild boys. We also traded comic books from door to door, had our own little libraries of classics and works that were, well, not so clean. It was a glorious time and I never thought I would say, "those good ole days were sure good."

In the vein of story-telling, written words, and remembering, I've made a video for all of you called Starchy Montoya and it's from my album Taos Tales. It's a story about how innocence and radical thought can take a walk together, hand in hand, to a promise of a new future.

Starchy Montoya / Battle for Blue Lake / Orange Modified Chopper.

Masa Rain - My Elk-Tooth-Wearing-Tiny-Goddess

2011-07-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

Masa Rain was born on April 23rd, 2006. She is the youngest of the Mirabal sisters, and for sure the most aware of all of her surroundings. She wants to be a cat doctor or an animal doctor of some kind - I guess at five years old you can be whatever you want.

Masa and her tough look.

Out of my three girls she has the soul of a 90 year old sometimes. I think maybe she is my Grandma Crucita come back to set me straight! (Ha ha). She can be comfortable in a patch of Taos Red Beans, on a tractor, or on stage with me. Masa Rain has amazing stamina and she can run almost a mile. Pretty good, eh? Did I mention she runs that distance without shoes? She can also weed corn like nobody's business. For my whole life I had thought I would have boys helping me in the fields, however, I have instead been gifted with the undying strength and faithfulness of women. I pray that I can be a stronger father to them and be more faithful as they grow up to be even more powerful unbending women. Masa, I love you too!


Toughing it out after weeding the Red Beans (Check out the elk tooth necklace.)

East Meets West

2011-06-29T04:00:00.000-07:00

At a fairly young age I was commissioned by two avant-garde dancers - Eiko and Koma, who are very famous in the style of the Butoh movement. I did a piece of music called “Land” for a show we collaborated on by the same title and we toured all over the world together.

It was within that framework that I was offered a fellowship through the American-Japanese Foundation to study Arts & Cultural in Japan. I stayed there for about five or six months, right around the time of the L.A. Riots in ’92; before cell phones; before it was so easy to just get on a computer and communicate with people all over the world and it was still very, very traditional in some of the places that I went to.

"There's No Place Like Home" or... Is There?

I rented a home in a place called Ninomiya, near a surf town called Oiso. This place was so radical and it was right on the Tokaido highway; an ancient highway that goes all the way between Tokyo and Yokohama. From Ninomiya I traveled everywhere and met a lot of people. At that time I realized how easy it would have been to just stay there because it was so amazing for me. However, it soon became time for me to decide to go home to the States and honor my commitments. So I went home. And in actuality, it was my connection to a woman I really cared for (and eventually married), that brought me home. There was nothing else.

But there were some strange things that started happening after I came home. I started to dream about certain things and they would happen; now especially, because I’m living up in the cornfields there are no electromagnetic waves. Because of these dreams I knew that there was going to be a lot of connection with the Japanese contingency this year and now they seem to just show up.

East Meets West

I was working at the Pueblo shop last week, as I usually do on Saturdays and Sundays, when my friend my friend Taka came in. Taka Masui is a famous photographer in Japan who I had met awhile back and he brought with him Insakasamoto, one of the editors of Lightning Magazine; a famous contemporary clothing magazine in Japan. They were working on a photography assignment.

East Meets West, Again

My next meeting was on June 10^th for a television show that has 42 different segments which means “take it easy” in English. The saying, “take it easy” has become quite popular in Japan. The host was pretty interesting and is a well- known pop musician in the vein of an acoustic song-writer style, his name is Caravan.

My tie to Japan and the Eastern world has been interesting and I’ve always felt a connection to Japan so I just want to invite my Japanese friends to continue showing up in my world, or in my dreams first.

this is Taka and I

this is Caravan and I

Acid Rain Dance/ Taos Tales

2011-06-27T22:05:00.000-07:00

This song was inspired by some random comic-strip I saw when I was boy, it showed two pencil drawing segments with the captions ancient corn dance on one and the other read, post-idiots acid rain dance.
the corn dance had a pretty scene of some pueblo corn dance with rain clouds billowing above them and the other scene was a three dancers in space suits and helmets carrying rattles with rain melting the background of a city.

my ancestors have always said, "take care of this land, or it will turn on you."

Anyway i thought i would post this with some pix of my ancient place and faces.

sad how in such a short period of time we have become the most destructive creature of all.

Heres the new video http://www.youtube.com/user/drmirabal#p/a/u/1/DhUubcKvTsQ

Bringer of Rain Bracelet

2011-06-22T04:00:00.000-07:00

The Clasp Bracelet, or Buckle Bracelet as it is sometimes called, has become very popular in the Pueblo. I call it the Bringer of Rain; the Bringer of Abundance. There are three different symbols used in this Rain Maker Bracelet; the rain clouds, the seed, and the masa. Masa is the symbol of "up and down", like a staircase, and represents the mountains; a way of life from childhood to adulthood to eldership to death. There are also other symbols that are based around the Rain Bringers.

This particular piece of jewelry represents the basis of Puebloan culture, that is; without corn there is no song, without song there is no dance, without dance there is no rain, without rain there is no life. I call first part of the buckle the "beginning of ceremony" and it’s connected through the cord, which represents the rain, that wraps around your wrist. The cord then connects to the other side of the buckle (emulating heishe/rows of corn), which has rain cloud (or seed) symbology, and then they come together. So, in essence, it’s ceremony--rain, corn, clouds... When the bracelet is buckled onto the wrist the circle is completed and the magic commences.

The step-by-step process of the Clasp Bracelet AKA "Bringer of Rain":

first process is designing

corn/rain clouds theme ready for mold

out of the mold

adding the cord/ rain

finished Rain Maker ready for a wrist

To see more Clasp Bracelets, or to purchase, click here.

The Apple Really Doesn't Drop Too Far from the Tree

2011-06-15T04:00:00.000-07:00

My daughter Kona Sunrise is nine years old going on twenty-five and she’s the artist of the family. I guess as the saying goes, “the apple doesn’t drop too far from the tree.” Kona is a lot like me, she’s very headstrong. She's a very powerful girl and if she puts her mind to things she has an ability to cause people to conform, change their minds, and she just creates ideas that most people would not have thought of.

Kona’s a dancer and I’m not quite sure what her life is going to be like. However, there’s a whole other part of her that I really appreciate and that is based on the fact that she can really, really connect with people and that’s something I could never do as a kid. As a boy I was so shy and I see her now and she’ll go up to anybody; man, woman, elder, child – it doesn’t make any difference.

She has the ability to just light up a room and traditionally she’s walking in her sister’s footsteps. I love her very much and there’s a whole other part of me that would not be here if it wasn’t for her. As I mentioned in my previous blog about Aspen, the reason I am who I am (the man that I am today) is because of my girls. Thank you Kona.

Corn Has Never Had a Boundary

2011-06-08T04:00:00.000-07:00

Aspen Dawn is my fourteen year old daughter and the picture you see above is her 8^th grade promotion. Many of her classmates wanted to dress in contemporary fashion but Aspen decided that she wanted to wear her traditional outfit. As long as I can remember Aspen has always had that certain know-how about what to do and how to present herself.

In the next few weeks Aspen will be going with her mom to Peru. They were invited to do a cultural exchange and she’ll see what they call an Inti Raymi festival, a kind of solstice celebration that lasts for one week. Through Tiwa Farms they were invited to do this cultural exchange in order to visit some different farming communities in order to exchange ideas, as well as seeds, and to bring them back to Taos Pueblo to see how we can establish connections through agriculture. Corn has never had a boundary.

Interestingly, I grew up in a mostly predominant all-women family and our matriarch was my grandma (who passed away when she was 93 years old). Since I was one of the only boys in my whole family I became immensely immersed in a lot of physical activity; from shoveling snow for three different houses, to chopping wood for two houses, to working the fields and just being kept overly busy outdoors. As a young boy I really disliked my grandma but as the years went by I realized how much of her had influenced me and my work.

Now, in my father-daughter connections I don’t hear my grandpa all too much in my voice but I do hear my grandma. I’ve always said that the man that I am today is because of my grandmother and the man I am in connection with tradition, culture, and a sense of success in business and in my music, is because of my daughters. Family, it seems, has no boundaries either in their influence upon us.

Aspen is a very influential part of my life and I wanted to write this blog just to say how much I love my girls and the indigenous women that are out there. Like the women in my family, remember that you have a voice and that your connection to this world is valued immensely and dearly.

Preliminary Po' Pay Script

2011-05-04T15:11:00.000-07:00

Simple Farmers song and lyrics by Robert Mirabal

2011-04-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

Guitar intro:

Above the clouds high upon the mountain top
Simple farmers living simple lives
Praying to the river to complete my life
Reading the sun like my ancestors before

There's no doubt that I've been here before
As i plow my fore fathers land
As i sow this humble seed
There's no doubt that I've seen this before

I know this land like the palm of my hands
Channel the water to the rhythm's of life
I fear no man its just me and my wife
This is our fate i don't need to translate

Cause there's no doubt that we have lived here before
Oh we pray for the gentle rain
that bless my simple fields
There's no doubt this is where I'll die

Quiet farmer lets his corn fields sing
Nothing more free as a man on his knees
Working the earth that's mans only worth
Praying for the harvest and dance for the rain

There's no doubt this is what we adore
To live this simple life
to walk this pueblo life
There's no doubt i have been here before

(Tag)
Among the simple fields
And among healing rains
Among silent plains
Among the simple fields
There's no doubt this is where we belong.

END

The video starts with pictures of a weekly farmers market in Ecuador specifically in a beloved community of Otavalo I have tried to go back recently to visit however this year Aspen and Dawn will be going to Peru.

Po'pay Trail Week 2

2011-04-17T16:19:00.000-07:00

Steve and I took a look at the canyons where the trail could come out on the upper end near Pilar. The best bet is Agua Caliente (Hot Water) Canyon which has a surprising amount of water flowing for this time of year. It's being diverted to a pond.

Po'pay's Duck Pond