A few months ago, I was engaged in thinking about Leslie Marmon Silko as a mountain travel author. Primarily through The Turquoise Ledge. Here are some notes from that time.
Seeing good places
for my hands
I grab the warm parts of the cliff
and feel the mountain as I climb.
Somewhere around here
yellow spotted snake is sleeping on his rock
in the sun.
please, I tell them
don’t step on the spotted yellow snake
he lives here.
The mountain is his.
The landscape of Laguna Pueblo in New Mexico emerges with aching loveliness in the photographs of Lee Marmon. Cliffs, canyons, tabletops, and lavabeds; rain, sand, snow, and clouds; ruins, mission churches, doorways and cliff-dwellings. A changing land, the coming of the railroads, and a human presence in symbiosis with the land: horsemen and sheepherders, Laguna elders, girls at a clothesline, Eagle Dancers, Deer Dancers, Buffalo Dancers. The photographs by her father give us something of the faces and geography of Leslie Marmon Silko’s intellectual and emotional inheritance. A long life of making the desert and sandstone mountains home comes together in this remarkable novelist, poet, and indigenous-rights activist’s lyrical memoir, The Turquoise Ledge. ‘My friend Bill Orzen taught me to speed walk on flat ground in town’, she opens, ‘but I prefer the hills to the city, so I adapted the speed walk to the steep rough terrain.’
Over time, she walks into the knowledge of how the desert supported an entire population ‘The footpaths through the Tucson Mountains are ancient. Humans have lived in these hills and arroyos for thousands of years. The palo verde and mesquite trees give great quantities of beans in June and the saguaro fruit and prickly pear ripened at the same time; the small game and birds were easy to hunt. For the ancient people, these hills and arroyos held everything they might need for survival.’ She reclaims and rewrites the history of the land and its ancient people with an assured wave aside of the European narrative. ‘The Pueblo people lived in the Laguna-Acoma area for thousands of years before the Europeans invaded, but the Spanish record-keepers made no mention of Laguna Pueblo, only Acoma. It was at Acoma that the Spaniards chopped off one hand and one foot of every captured Acoma man or boy over the age of seven, in retaliation for an Acoma victory over the Spanish troops in 1598. […] [T]he Kawaikameh, the Laguna people, had been living there by the lake on the Rio San José for thousands of years already when the rebels from the northern pueblos were brought there. Thus the Spaniards erroneously stated Laguna Pueblo wasn’t established until 1698. The error about the date of the founding of Laguna Pueblo was repeated in later histories. The Laguna Pueblo people didn’t bother to correct the error because it made no difference to their reckoning of the world.’ Silko argues for the connectedness of land with language as she argues for firm inheritance of Nahuatl and related Uto-Aztecan languages. ‘Linguistic diversity is integral to the cultural diversity that ensures some humans will survive in the event of one of the periodic global catastrophes. Local indigenous languages hold the keys to survival because they contain the nouns, the names of the plants, insects, birds and mammals important locally to human survival.’ She learns the names of flowers and plants, and gives snakes a home. And she continues to collect bits of turquoise pebble and to write about them as these flashes of compacted blue planet arrest her eyes and her thoughts.
The book is an ode to and entreaty for pacific and responsible survival as a species and as a people. In the desert, this is about dark peaks stopping and entertaining clouds to the point of rain. ‘Turquoise is the ritual colour of Tlaloc, the Nahua God of Rain.’ Her story about a group of Hopi traditionalists who decided, at the start of the eleventh year of a severe drought (2006), to undertake a sacred run from northern Arizona to Mexico City to the carved stone monolith of Tlaloc, is emblematic of her layered understanding of human place on our planet. ‘They’d been educated, as we all have,’ she says of the Hopi traditionalists with gentle irony, ‘to expect no miracles from Tlaloc. But in the Americas, the sacred surrounds us, no matter how damaged or changed a place may appear to be.’ Three months later, the rain clouds gathered, and broke, and pulled a writer away from her desk. ‘In Tucson where the drought had lasted so long even the desert vegetation was beginning to die, the rain smell was intoxicating—I couldn’t work on this manuscript.’
 ‘The Time We Climbed Snake Mountain’, Storyteller (New York: Seaver Books, 1981), pp. 76-77.
 See The Pueblo Imagination: Landscape and Memory in the Photography of Lee Marmon (Boston: Beacon Press, 2003), and Lee Marmon and Tom Corbett, Laguna Pueblo: A Photographic History (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2015).
, Leslie Marmon Silko, The Turquoise Ledge: A Memoir (New York: Viking, 2010), p. 5.
 The Turquoise Ledge, p. 11.
 The Turquoise Ledge, pp. 20-21.
 The Turquoise Ledge, p. 46. In this breath, see also Robert Macfarlane’s magnificent word-hoarding in Landmarks (London: Penguin, 2015). Long interested in the links between language and landscape, Macfarlane is spurred on by a collection of peat-land-specific place words to begin an ongoing project of ‘assembling some of this terrifically fine-grained vocabulary–and releasing it back into imaginative circulation, as a way to rewild our language.’ This rewilding is a project of joy and discovery and sadness and possibility, undertaken at a time when, as we learn, a junior dictionary makes place for ‘broadband’, but has no room for ‘bluebell’. ‘The Word-Hoard’, The Guardian, 27 February 2015.
 The Turquoise Ledge, pp. 144-146.
I shall write about the stimulating experience of my first DHSI (Digital Humanities Summer Institute) in a bit, but today’s post, in inadequate phone pictures, is about the loveliness of the southern part of Vancouver Island. There is also a sadness to it that I cannot find words for. You too might see, if you visit, what this land was to the peoples who lived here long before European arrival. (And most of us, we must understand, are visitors. Whether or not we live there now, our power to do so is a separate matter from our right to do so.) It is important to understand, too, that the magnificent curatorial achievements of something like the First Nations Collections are markers as much of voice and resilience as of silencing and continued violence. On the eve of #Canada150, the question mark in #Canada150? is more important than ever.
(My thanks to Ashley Morford, through whom I came to know Christi Belcourt’s poem.)
Two girls stand against a clear sky and flying wisps of clouds–and against a clothesline. There is a bit of wind in the uplift of the new wash and the girls’ hair and clothes. But most importantly, there is light caught in the sky and the very earth the girls are standing on. I think this is one of my very favourite photographs anywhere.
Last year, while reading Leslie Marmon Silko‘s gorgeous memoir The Turquoise Ledge, I started looking at the photographic work of Lee Marmon, Silko’s father. It was a revelation, together with the sharp sadness of not having known this magnificent body of work earlier. I have since picked up and spent time with two books that bring some of this remarkable work to codex print: The Pueblo Imagination: Landscape and Memory in the Photography of Lee Marmon (Boston: Beacon Press, 2003), and the recent Laguna Pueblo: A Photographic History (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico press, 2015). Little Girls at Clothesline is reproduced from its online presence at the Lee Marmon Gallery–although I should mention that you cannot see anything of its luminosity and detail in this limited-resolution reproduction. I realize too that what I have seen so far is a very small fraction of Marmon’s work. Some day, I should love to look in on the University of New Mexico’s Lee Marmon Pictorial Collection to spend more time among these contours of light.
Simplicity itself you might say
Feel reach balance handhold
foothold stepup joy
But in the warmth of a winter sun
the antiquity of a desert upthrust
and the patient sculpture of wind
An old music in the quiet
of a belay stance
Life and death of lizards joshua trees
turtles creosotes yuccas snakes
under a vaulting sky
of cracks beneath my hands
White sand then red
piled upon piled still warm
Waves answering—gently—a sky
of cloudy blue that supports
an arrow of birds
straight and true
as free as life ever was
or can be
He holds his daughter’s hand
she her father’s
in love with his best poems
He is often unwell these days
I don’t know when my
eyes filled with tears
to the salty wind
Which means cooking. The best way I know to decompress. I’m being my father’s daughter. He loved to eat, loved to cook, loved to have people over and feed them, and perhaps most of all, loved to have my sister and me around as he pottered about in the kitchen concocting wonderful things. Later, when he became ill, I used to cook for him.
Today, the kitchen is one of my favourite places. Every once in a while, I even take work over and write at the counter. As a dal boils peacefully on the stovetop, for instance.
Two friends, Insiya and Saptarshi, have recently undertaken a labour of love. Excellent at both the exercises of food and photography–the photograph at the top of this post is from their collection–they have started a documentation of the cooking of Calcutta. This post is to celebrate their efforts and their (delicious) achievements. Here is their YouTube channel Bong Eats. You can also follow along on Google+. And read full accounts on their website. If you don’t yet know of the wonders of Bengali cuisine, prepare for a treat.
A tree lies on the river. It fell, or almost fell, some time ago–I don’t know when. It grows now, lying on the river, branches green with new leaves every year. These days, I often take my reading over and sit on the big and beautiful root system, which serves as my bench. It’s a big tree. Not ancient, not huge, but big. The root system is a very ample seat for my book and me. I dangle my feet on the water, touch the trunk that almost touches the river. The wind shakes the leaves from another tree close by. So many colours. The strength of the roots. On to another year.
I see that I have started calling it my river. As though a river could belong to any one.
Even if it could, mine is many oceans away. It always fills me with joy and sadness in equal measure to think of it. I have walked along my river in my city, Kolkata, just before it met the Bay of Bengal. And I have walked with my river past Benaras and Haridwar and Rishikesh and Gangotri and right on to the massive Gangotri Glacier. You might not believe the colours of the rock and the moraines and the ice piled on snow piled on scree–unless you had seen them. As for the colour of the sky at those many thousands of feet, let me not even try to describe. Only imagine a lift deep in your lungs. And a terrific sharpness of the senses. That is what I remember. More loveliness than I ever knew what to do with.
But maybe the waters of the globe constitute a thread of continuity. And here, in Ann Arbor, I do sometimes call the Huron mine. I then catch myself. Could I have with any other river in the world what I have with the Ganga? But the affection and even gratitude are real. As though to clinch it, there are flowers by the water almost all year long, just as soon as the snow is gone.