You Said “Black Lives Matter”.

It’s the first of November!

This month is Native American heritage month, so come support!

Expect to see some fun details showing up in the shop as we start to approach the holiday season!

Come help us hit our daily goal! Even 2-3 orders can make it!

https://awaksupegage.com

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Native Land

I like my Chicanos but Mexican Americans have got to stop with the whole “the Southwest is Mexican land”, yes Mexico owned it before the US but it was ALWAYS Native land before Mexico & the US even existed. My peoples, the Tarahumaras, Otomis, Purepechas, Chichimecas, etc ancestral territory was never in the Southwest. It always belonged to the Hopi, O'odham, Pueblo nations and the surrounding people. You have to respect that.

You can help give land back RIGHT NOW!

These are stunning designs by Wenatchi Wear which is an Indigenous owned business for stickers mugs, tanks, hoodies, t shirts and just generally sicc clothes.

What's more sicc than that is the go fund me run by the owner of Wenatchi Wear!

This is an opportunity for the Wenatchi tribe to buy back some of their ancestral lands.

Why is this so FUCKING important?

The current reservation is the Colville Confederated Tribe reservation which is a conglomerate of TWELVE tribes. (This alone is a disgusting violation of so many treaties and some day I'll have words about what it did to my family) More importantly right now is that the Wenatchi is a non-federally recognized tribe!!! This has many implications for the preservation of their culture but also limits their access to the resources both monetarily AND on the the lands they had treaty rights to that are part of their ancestral lands. This land purchase would put many Wenatchi people back on their ancestral lands and also funds a community center so their tribe has space to practice heal and grow their community and culture.

PLEASE DONATE TO THE GO FUND ME IF YOU CAN

Their venmo is Wenatchi_LandBack

Cat Sidhe

“The King of the Cats”: a British folk tale

One winter’s evening the sexton’s wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn’t come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, ‘Who’s Tommy Tildrum?’ in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter.

‘Why, what’s the matter?’ said his wife, 'and why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?’

'Oh, I’ve had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr Fordyce’s grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat's Miaou.’

'Miaou!' said Old Tom in answer.

'Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?’

'Now, how can I tell?’ said the sexton’s wife.

'Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Miaou – ’

'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.

'Yes, just like that!’ said the sexton; 'and as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly; because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like – but look at our Tom, how he’s looking at me. You’d think he knew all I was saying.’

'Go on, go on,’ said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.’

'Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Miaou –’

'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.

'Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr Fordyce’s grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he’s looking at me just like they did.’

'Go on, go on,’ said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.’

'Where was I? Oh, they stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn’t carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me – yes, I tell 'ee, said to me, with a squeaky voice, “Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toidrum’s dead,” and that’s why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum’s dead if I don’t know who Tom Tildrum is?’

'Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom!’ screamed his wife.

And well he might look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, 'What – old Tom dead! then I’m the King o’ the Cats!’ and rushed up the chimney and was nevermore seen.

Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages, 1922

not to be maya on side but please do not call someone or something “mayan” when talking about our people, culture, etc. “mayan” refers to our language family (a language FAMILY, in which there are plenty of unique languages). we are the maya, not the mayans. i am maya, not mayan. it is the indigenous maya community, not the indigenous mayan community. 

“Beware the autumn people. For some, autumn comes early, stays late, through life, where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the only normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond.

Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No, the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks through their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars.

They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.”

— Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Image: “Autumn People” by Frank Frazetta.

My eyes are like pools of rich xocolatl, when hit in the right angle, they light up like amber on fire. Like the holy sun pouring through stain glass windows in the cathedral that is my body. Othertimes like the dark bark of redwood trees along the foggy coasts. They are a reminder of our connection to the Land and the richness of life, though bitter at times it might be. They aren't signs that we're full of shit - full of holy shit, maybe. Full of gold. Like the honey wine of poetic inspiration. Like the resin tears of Electrum, mourning the fallen star and dead sun. Windows to our soul, to our own inner Divinity. Native brown eyes are beautiful and aren't romanticized enough. I'll do it myself if I have to.