I have a friend who is dying. She's not old; she's the mother of three small children and the wife of one of my closest friends.

She's dying from colon cancer that has metastasized crazily, ferociously; it is in her lungs, it permeates her liver, and it will kill her in a matter of days.

Last night I spoke with her husband for more than an hour on the phone. He's alternately angry, frightened, courageous, and sturdy. I can't imagine the quality of the pain he's feeling; her pain is stupendous, but my relationship is tighter with him, and I naturally attempt to wrap my head around what it must feel like to know that your wife will be lost to you in a matter of days. It's not comprehensible.

I will see my friend, the one who is dying, one more time. I'll tell her that my wife and my children and I will remain a strong part of her children's lives, that we will be an uncle and an aunt and cousins in the way that indegenous people do, a way that assures that there is a smooth buttering of available love across the family.

I will tell her that I will be a strong brother to her husband, that I will help him walk the good red road. I will share my experience and wisdom and humor so that he can continue to be a good father to his sons and daughter, so that he can heal, so that he can stay free from debilatating anger and despair.

I have a friend who is dying, and she prays in a good way, in the lodge, and with the canupa, and I know that her spirit will go to where it needs to go, even though we cannot understand why her body had to fail and become a host to this disease.

I have a friend who is dying, but who has lived.

I hope her passing is magnificient.

070301

Sitting here at the desk, warm, slush crapping out of a Michigan March night sky, listening to Buffy Saint Marie sing the truth about Leonard and Anna Mae and the way things really are in this country. I'm remembering a Thanksgiving 21 years ago at the Comedy Store in LA, with John Trudell, Floyd Crow Westerman, Buffy, hosted by Max Gail, and we were taping the whole thing, a benefit for Leonard Peltier, full house, full too of federal spies in wingtips and starched jeans, long shiny polyester wigs with headbands, keeping an eye on things while they danced wasicu by the sides of the stage.

And the band rocked, and the energy was huge, and we raised lots of money for Leonard's defense.

Two days later, the tapes were stolen from the office, so we weren't able to broadcast the show as we had intended. The FBI broke in and ripped the people off, for the thousandth time, and stole some other stupid tapes and an old Sony deck just to make it look like some junkie B&E.

The bullets don't match the gun.

Look, this isn't going to be a wicked rantjoint here, but I'll be posting whatever is on my mind ... listen to the podcasts. Thanks.

Mitakuye oyasin.