New Entry

03.01.2026

It was intended to be a gift to be a gift, actually two gifts. One to a mixed blood Ojibwe from Winona and one to a black shaman from Anoka. I met Chief under sidewalk terms in Winona after being booted from an establishment with a group of African Americans. I was the one on-charge after teaching youngers a lesson in common law. Chief let me know that it would be OK to re-enter the next night. As conversation transpired he went on to explain to me that; Though not knowing his biological father, his mother brought him to a fire-dance at the age of eight years. It was there where he experienced being rained on during a sunny day. During this same interaction he said to me that he felt that I am like him; "Chosen," perhaps in the likeness of an “Earth Angel.” 

This, for me, cycles back to a bar in Western Montana approximately a year before. It was there where a native gifted to me the name “Hawk.” He was experiencing the loss of a friend who had passed the day before, who I had an interaction with at the same bar two days earlier. This man had actually defended my character to two others who were trying to cut me down. On the day of loss, the native witnessed my exhaustion of drinking Mountain Dew in shame by others. He continued to explain that he had also lost a youngster, despite efforts, to a house fire recently as well. While we shared this heavy mood, I rolled a half Tobacco, half CBD Marijuana smoke with an unbleached paper and said “We will smoke together,” and left it on the bar in front of him. Moments later, I was rushed out the door by my friend who had invited me to perform twelve shows that were sponsored by his girlfriend’s tattoo shop. The smoke remained on the bar.

Two mornings later, two crushed Mountain Dew cans appeared in front of the tattoo shop in the sleepy town of Anaconda, Montana without a sole around. I haven't seen the native from that bar since the afternoon of my failed attempt to smoke with him failed. About one year later, back in Minnesota, yearning for travel farther down the Mississippi River from Anoka is when I met Chief in Winona. The next morning after meeting him, I was on a river walk when I found a Hawk feather to give to Chief. I held that feather in my truck for a half a year before sending it to the air, thinking that I might not see him again. Not long after that, I ran my truck into a tree. 

About three weeks ago I ran into Chief again at a Punk Rock show in Winona. I bear hugged him and lifted him off the ground, and I explained my sorrow for not keeping the feather to give to him. The next morning, on my way to a performance in Red Wing I was on a phone conversation with a Black Shaman from Anoka who is a dear friend. 

While explaining the Chief story and the Montana story to my wise-man, talking became reality as I passed a dead bird strike Hawk on the shoulder of Highway 61. I U-turned a few miles ahead, then U-turned again to catch the two lanes again, North and removed both feet from the dead carcass with the intention of gifting one to Chief and one to Shaman. The rest will be unsaid, grace.