

## UNCAGE EDEN

A spiritual philosophy book about

food, music, and the rewilding of society

No copyright held. Feel free to duplicate and distribute. This book is my gift to you.

If you exchanged money for this mess, then you have most certainly been ripped off.

### Introdeduction

I've only touched money four times in the last year...

...and I've had the greatest adventure. I've broken free of the indoctrinated confines of capitalism. The systematic slavery machine that has held an entire species hostage and put Stockholm himself to shame. Contained us in a global dream of freedom, and terrified us from even attempting to wake up to the realization that we are anything but. We are in captivity.

We could come together and empower the Earth to become the greatest planet in the whole wide world, but instead, we trickle down the pollution of oppression and settle into the complacency of settling. The settlers are the most entangled in the constraints of the prison camp of america, but their plausible deniability allows them to turn a blind eye to their own cage, as they trade the freedom of the entirety of life on Earth, for the progression of convenience for the few.

We captured the kingdom of animals, and now their entire existence is dedicated to the servitude of man. But they can see the fence. They can see through the cage. They understand freedom, because there is no escaping the constant reminders of the enslavement that ensures they will never know just how green the other grass is. And of course, fences go both ways, as we force the plant nation to yield and produce, while taking drastic measures to enforce a complete lockdown of their life cycle. No visitation allowed. The family you've known your whole life, the symbiotic relationships you've evolved over millions of years, those that you understand have just as much right to the Earth and the Sun and the water and the pure unadulterated essence of life, and you get to watch them starve to death through the electric picket line. These perimeters of primate property have eradicated complex migratory ecosystems, and only to cage the forward momentum of our own captivation. Fences are destroying the garden, and the self-proclaimed intelligent species seems to be the only one that can't quite wrap their swollen skull around the importance of sharing, so we just wrap another fence around it instead.

We don't discriminate though, we're just as quick to captivate our own evolution, through the prophetized destruction of civilization. Just tricking, there's actually quite a lot of discrimination involved in the crimination of america. The factory farms composing our country's for-profit prison system, extend far beyond the walls and razor wire that are currently closing in on an overpopulation of indentured servants. Those trapped inside this cage, under the guise of rehabilitation, know first hand that the system is designed for the polar opposite. The profiteers at the top of the pyramid, those who make it their business to cut the corners off of human rights, they understand that a repeat customer base is essential to the bottom line. Not to suggest that they're not actively seeking new clientele, a simple map comparing the vicinities of prisons and orphanages will start to unravel just how streamlined they've designed their recruitment operation. The legal system rigged to keep down the populations that pose the greatest threat of rising up, is of course easily bypassable by those of minimal color and maximum capital, all others report for duty.

But what's the alternative? If we're going to continue to increase the privilege of the chosen few, well obviously there has to be an equal and opposite oppression of the masses. We can't sustain a world built on the convenience of disposable discount bins, without doing so on the backs and broken bodies of the inferior members of our own race. Those born into a broken system with a fast track to the big house. Or those born into a country that soon thereafter employs their tiny agile (and fragile) fingers, as they sweat so that you may shop from the comfort of your air conditioned home. So that you don't have to look away from your phone for a single second, no chance that you'll ever have to face the facts about just how much slave labor goes into each and every pixel of your latest vacation snapchat.

But there's no need to jump a border wall to catch a glimpse of a suppressed nation. To understand the cages our civilization must use in order to perpetuate our alleged freedom, one must only spend time on the reservation to begin to fully grasp the depths of living under the rule of tyrannical military force. Prisoners of war, POW camps, that's not even native propaganda, it's our country's official stance on the mistreatment of a forgotten population. Water polluted with uranium, substandard food polluting their bodies, tribal government polluted with corruption, white supremacy polluting their neighborhood, suicide polluting a new generation, meth polluting their communities, and alcohol polluting their spirits.

They're under no illusion of freedom however. The only freedom they experience is that of truth, of the knowledge of their cage, of being able to see through the delusion of freedom, the one that the rest of us will cling to even as it crumbles at the slightest touch. It's not that we don't have polluted water and food and government and racism and suicide, it's just that we take the easy way out and prefer to ignore that there's anything to be done, it's simply the price to pay for expanded close-mindedness. And lucky for us, the drug and alcohol problems plaguing our great nation, have the convenient side-effect of making us forget that there was ever a problem in the first place.

The way we push alcohol onto the vulnerable reservation community is overtly despicable, but this net of liquid dependency has ensnared our entire culture in a web of complacency, which has allowed things to become as completely broken as they undeniably are. We didn't even notice. We could have done something before it was too late. But we pretended there wasn't a problem, as we continued to be the problem, and now we're confused about why there's so many problems. Whew, kinda need a drink after all that.

It's surprisingly easy to see why we'd want to be kept in the dark about everything that goes into keeping the lights on. About the cages of capitalism designed to keep us perpetually indebted to the captors who write the rules of wealth. A completely unintuitive system that no prisoner dare question, else they would be forced to rationalize the irrationality of requiring this made up monetary compensation for the fundamental basics of sustaining life. Sentenced to a lifetime of unfulfilling labor, often detrimental to our planetary existence, and all in the name of providing food, water, heat, health, and shelter. A never ending cycle of delinquent lease payments and late fees, mortgage insurance and rising interest rates, a bottomless pit of debt with incalculable odds of ever escaping. The architecture of the funnel is perfectly mirrored in the bored game of property rights and rental agreements, where a single player is left with everything, as the rest are bankrupt and in jail.

But how do the working class citizens of our country stand a chance, when the country itself is caught up in the exact same situation? An economic prison based on borrowing fractional money from a privately operated central bank, at interest of course, and now we're on the hook to pay back more money than is physically in existence. If every dollar is issued by the federal reserve, with interest pre-attached, then the only way to ever be able to pay off our debt, is by taking out additional loans through that same federal reserve. The most successful Ponzi scheme in history, and we buy right into it without a second thought.

We don't think about much these days though, at least if you don't count football stats, reality tv spin-offs, and diversified portfolios. Imagine everyone whose career is centered around the cataloging of money, now imagine we wake up tomorrow in a world devoid of the stuff. Left without the timesuck of a pointless profession, or the economic sanctions of quantity over quality, the imagination of the paper pusher will be free to find more fulfilling work, which inherently betters the world around them. And that betters themselves. That nudges them along the path of self-discovery. No longer forced to deny their inner voice, they will be free to pull back the curtain on this charade of destruction. Without the indoctrinated cheer of a broken system, they will be able to journey deep within and find humility, patience, and understanding, all while unlocking the cage that has imprisoned their hearts. Their spirit.

We have been existing in a fear and scarcity based society for thousands of years, with each passing generation becoming progressively disengaged from our spiritual connection with the Earth and the universe. We traded love for fear, and our entire species fell asleep. Through a plethora of manmade fallacies, we became disconnected from our global communication system, the song of the planet. Our home. Our mother. We fell out of harmony as we fell out of love, until we forgot that we were even a part of nature to begin with, and instead, became fearful of the wild.

But naptime is over. We are no longer caught up in an extended sleep cycle. We have officially entered a period of awakening. We are breaking free of the spiritual confinements that have allowed the evils of the world to run the show for so long. This is happening at an accelerated rate all around us, but it will be a process, a planetary shift of consciousness doesn't happen overnight. The path to communal unity starts with each of us individually, as we take a genuine look inside, and without ego, begin to tear down the walls we've built around our hearts. Around our spiritual centers. Our connections to our higher selves. Our memories of unconditional love, and the knowledge that it truly can conquer all. Especially fear.

So, yeah, we caged our own spiritual connection. Which directly led to us caging our planetary ecosystem. Which led to the cages of capitalism. Which profits from the cages of oppression. From which the only mass-marketed escape hatch is the cage of alcoholism. Which of course only created a further disconnect between us and our spiritual selves. Downward spiral.

This drill of devastation has been digging us into a hole for a very long time, but don't let that discourage you from seeing outside of the machine. It may have taken millennia to concoct such a contrived system of absurdity, the endless energy required to keep up the illusion of a functional disfunction, but that is precisely why it will crumble at the earliest onset of a global awakening. The cage is not inescapable, it is but a cocoon that has made possible the evolution of life, love, and an expanded awareness of the destiny of humankind. We will emerge completely transformed, as we shed the layers of confinement that have kept us docile for so long.

This is for real. The movement is alive. The planet is awake.

It is time to uncage Eden.

### I. The Farm

"One planet is turning, circle on her path around the Sun"

*******

So, this one time, I wrote this book about my lightening blizzard winter at Standing Rock, it was pretty cool. It pretended to be an adventure cookbook, but spiraled through a much larger narrative starring agriculture as the original sin. The behind-the-scenes player fueling the destruction of the world around us. And financing it. I really went on and on about the whole agriculture thing, so I'll assume you're up to speed. Or at least able to understand that if we commoditize our plentiful Mother Earth, if we prioritize profits over plant life, animal life, and human life, if we take more than our fair share, then the cornucopia dries up. Ok, now we're all on the same page, page 5 or 6 or something like that, so where should I start this thing? Oh, well how 'bout that time I was taking a greyhound to virginia... to live on a farm.

Gotta love a good plot twist, couldn't remember if they go at the beginning or the end, figured I'd double up. Anyway, I was halfway done transcribing 'Step One', when I got wind of a water protector sweat lodge happening for the four days of summer solstice. I was in dire need. I hadn't sweat since camp, and like most of the water protectors, I was suffering from the psychological traumas of dealing with all that we experienced, and varying levels of reintegration back into society. I hadn't even attempted to check back into the grid, but I did spend a few weeks with family in rural carolina. You know, country folk. Good hearted, mild mannered, family oriented, church going, conservative, oil guzzling, gun toting, mcdonalds eating, turkey farming, homophobic, privileged white people.

Needless to say, they didn't quite understand why I was fighting for the water in a land so far away. Or why I refused to pour gasoline down an anthill, to exterminate the original inhabitants of the neighborhood that my family only recently colonized. But, won't you feel bad if one of the precious young ones gets chewed up by fiery insects? Certainly I will sympathize with a tearful toddler, I love my little dudes, but I also sympathize with my six legged brothers who just had their home crushed by an inconsiderate higher species.

How about we teach our young to be considerate? To understand that we share our home and should respect the space of others. Show them how to observe, how to pay attention, how to be aware of how they affect the living world around themselves. And how it may affect them. Mindfulness. Easier to learn it now, than after this attempted ecocide fails to subdue Mother Nature and a careless kiddo has to learn the hard way.

And too young to know better? Not valid. Kids are brilliant. And resilient. Only recently embarking on their long journey of endless life lessons. And you'd prefer to end the life of an entire community of Ant families, just so that your little stinker never has to grow up? Overflowing from a world run by self-centered brats who never reached adulthood, disconnected from the consequences of their own actions, unaware of any type of symbiosis between man and the concept of a somehow separated nature, 'us and them' in perpetuity as classes are labeled to further alienate our biological allies, easily wooed with sparkles and sweets and the early indoctrination of dollar values, even if it does require using the Earth as a disposable diaper bin.

I personally know kids that were with it before they could even talk. If it's important to you, then it'll be important to them. If instead, your life is centered around mindless convenience and an ignorance to your own Ant covered footprint, well, let's just say that this shelter you built, is going to offer zero protection from the stormy dystopia that you're passing down to our future. Sounds like it's not the kids who need to grow up after all.

Despite repeated warnings, I continued to walk around the yard barefoot, I just didn't smash any Ant habitats. Easy really, a higher perspective makes it effortless to navigate the path ahead, at least as long as no Ant farm fences completely sever the migration route.

*******

Across the neighbor's fence, there was another intruder, a beautiful Copperhead had apparently not seen the no trespassing sign. Armed with Sage and a shovel, the only land dispute mediation I could offer was a witness relocation program to the nearby woods. But I didn't live in this community. I would be leaving soon and unthreatened by future run-ins, unencumbered by the guilt of enabling a poisonous Snake to bite a loved one. I get it, I understand the logic of murdering our brother to save our son, I just don't agree with it. So I would not try to stop them, I preferred to spend that energy praying. I carried the lifeless serpent to the wood line, smudged, and thanked this mesmerizing creature for its contributions to life's circle as I offered its energy up to the ever dwindling strip of neighboring ecosystem.

Of course, through the Lakota perspective, which my current connection to the planet was birthed in, killing that Snake was bad medicine. A dose of negative karma at the cost of such a spiritually significant animal. We would also expect to see an influx of slithering visitors as news travels through the Muscadine vine. A fun idea, an uneducated mythology of the uncivilized, a hollywood satire of english speaking pets, but quite preposterous that the real world has any idea what's going on out there. An unspoken interconnectedness between a nearly infinite range of organisms, nah, we can't even get along with ourselves.

I prefer an understanding of the environment rooted in science. Like the largest organism on Earth, the Honey Fungus, a living mycelium that spans miles in the pacific northwest. And good old science has connected the dots on how this neural network enables forest-wide communication, as it reroutes critical nutrients to areas of prioritized ecological importance. And it turns out that the planet is pretty much held together by similar webs of fungal microbiology, that seem to be transmitting some kinda secret code. There is a planetary language of vibration. The hills are alive with the sound of music.

While I certainly contend that we are in no way superior to the rest of life, I also acknowledge that we are not at all inferior either, in principle at least. Just like our brothers and sisters, we are also perfectly evolved to tune-in to the soundtrack of our mother's womb. The hum of the incubator designed to give us comfort in knowing that we are being looked after. However, we have somehow been completely conditioned to ignore her love song, we let fear strike a few sour chords, and now the whole orchestra sounds out of key. Pretty naive for a creature who evolved a tin ear, to start second guessing the complexity of such a masterpiece. Throughout this journey, I've deepened my participation in this global symphony, becoming continuously inspired to connect as I crossed paths with those who seem to speak the language fluently.

At this point though, I was only engaged in a one-sided creek bed convo with a passing Deer, until all of a sudden a Snake "fell" from a tree and landed a few feet behind me. He reminded me to be mindful of my surroundings, and I reminded him that I also mourned the loss of our dear brother. Spooked me a bit, made me jump reflexively, basic instinct, almost out of... fear? Well that can't be right. How could someone so into the natural world, so certain of a planetary web of eco-connectedness, someone prepared to live in an off-grid cave nourished only by the knowledge that all of my needs will be provided for, provided that I believe in the abundance of our infinite mother, how could I be experiencing the delusion of fear that only exists in the made up language of man?

Conditioning. Now, while fear is not instinctual, the street smarts to get away from an animal that might cause you harm, is. As far as this fear conditioning polluting the air, well, that's the kind of stuff that perpetuates the slaughter of an innocent in the name of comfort. Funny enough that with the Snake gone, the comfort level is now clouded with a new wave of Rat poison.

So maybe I didn't experience fear. Once I had jumped to a reasonably safe distance, I no longer felt anything but love for this creature. But it got me thinking, made me look inward, with humility, and admit to myself that perhaps I wasn't as ready to disappear into the woods as I was letting myself believe. How will I react if a visitor wanders into my bed at night? I trust that my instincts will take care of me in the moment, no worry about that, where the fear would try to sneak in would be through the pillow thoughts of my sleepless slumber. Night terrors of absurdity, as there's no nocturnal hunting party looking for me, I don't even show up on their radar, or menu. I won't wake up in a half digested state of constriction. They are not my predators. If anything, I could eat them.

Ding, ding, ding. Now we're talking. Name a single animal longer than a breadbox that would be easier to hunt without a weapon. If our initial reaction was that of gratitude for the abundance of life, if we saw them not as a pest but as a bounty, if we honored their contribution to the universal cycles of evolution, perhaps we wouldn't feel compelled to act on our fear of the unfamiliar. Certainly helps me sleep at night, both in a grass floor tipi and amidst the confliction of taking another's life. If I can eat you, then you're fair game. Circle of life baby. Game on.

*******

Of course, my new menu plans would probably seem a little out there to my grandmother, but as the only unemployed members of the family, we had plenty of time for our worldviews to collide. And I made indian tacos for mother's day.

She's adorable and sweet as can be, and has raised such a beautiful family, and her hearing aids made for some entertaining yelling matches across the back porch. She was of course glad that I'd had fun on my "campout," and was clueless about this "french climate thing" that her president had just dropped out of. I aggravated her by refusing to use disposable plates in a single-person household that generates a bag of trash per day, and grossed her out pretty good by either not flushing every time, or just evacuating outside. She got me back with her inability to conceive of a world without oil, when she should have been the family member least removed from a simpler time. Tried the whole 'no money' idea too, but how will the family afford to drive across town to get to work? Bless her heart. But even as off-the-deep-end as it must seem I've fallen, I also returned with prayer in my life, while alcohol had vanished.

We pray in different ways. To me, all are valid. To her, not so much. I did go to church with her once though, first time in a long time, and it wasn't near as bad as I had prepped myself for. The guest pastor's sermon was about becoming stronger through adversity. Facing challenges head-on with the faith that you will be better for it. Humility. I agreed with every word. This place wasn't that bad after all.

Except that I understood the prejudice built into these walls. I knew the backstory explaining the recent string of guest pastors. This particular conglomeration of sixteen presbyterian churches, recently voted to allow homosexual preachers to provide spiritual counsel on a church by church basis. In backwoods conservative carolina, progressive indeed, way to go dixie.

Of course, the mere possibility of having to interact with someone different from themselves, pushed members of the church, including some of my family, to pledge to leave the congregation, "if the gays take over." Then their long time minister retired and stopped by the house with the new guy, everyone in the church was in love, at least until someone facebook stalked him and discovered his idea of a good time. Half the church kept their word and boycotted, forcing the organization to reorganize their leadership. The defecting members returned, having successfully persecuted one of God's children over differing religious beliefs, so half of the rest of them boycotted the returning bigots, unwilling to share a place of worship with such hatred and lack of compassion. Maybe a little of the humility that today's lesson touched on, except that a cloud of homophobia drove away all those willing to attempt to understand something outside of their indoctrinated comfort zone.

But I survived church. I survived the small town lifestyle I spent my life escaping. I couldn't have done it without my own prayer though. Without a bundle of Sage and some reassuring words to remind myself of the importance of my mission. Being without an inipi, without ceremony, without a spiritual leader, without a fire to pray into, without the Lakota way of life around every corner, it somehow made my connection to spirit even stronger. I was forced to rely solely on my heart to get me through, had to stay continuously humbled and walk in prayer just to stay sane, it strengthened my faith as it strengthened the words of 'Step One.' Anyone can preach to their own choir, it's much more transformative to learn to preach to another's. Just another evolution of strength through adversity.

As the time was nearing to begin typing the book, my concerted lack of planning received ridicule from those who see nothing wrong with our fractured civilization. Where will I go? How will I survive? How will I possibly eat without money? An answer of believing in the abundance of an all powerful planet won't satisfy the query. Faith in God to provide for me as I actively pour love out to all, well that won't do, even God needs money to operate. Belittling criticisms of our entire movement, a legion of slackers living off the pockets of others, a community risking persecution and prosecution, sacrificing safety and comfort to stand up for what they believe in, protecting the people of a planet who can't speak up for herself, and making our home a better place while spreading the message of universal love. And all funded by the donations of the followers of our doctrines, those at home who support the changes we intend to make upon a broken world, those praying that no matter what we do, we don't give up. How again is this job any different than that of a beloved politician or neighborhood minister? Oh yeah, you fired him too. Touché.

So I stayed strong in my faith, as I held on tight to the one Lakota prayer song I'd managed to learn, and finished writing the last page of the book, on the night before a ride and a computer manifested itself into my path. And now I find myself on an overnight bus, as I travel to a fully self-sustained farm capable of providing everything I could possibly need to survive. Just gotta believe.

*******

Exhausted from a world of exhaust, feeling rewarded for a job well done and grateful for a reunion of brothers returning to ceremony, I was reminded just how intricate the web of life is woven, and that as long as I trust in the universe, my devotion to spreading unconditional love will have me in the exact right place to truly impact the greater good. As I boarded the bus, I was drawn to sit next to a peruvian woman near the back. I intended to type on the trip, but conversation organically developed and it became apparent that we were meant to be travel companions.

She was on a path of bettering her eating habits, as she continued to learn about the connections between the horrors of our country's agriculture industry and her lifetime of chronic illness. She was also on her way home after a trip to the Cherokee reservation, in search of healing from ptsd, specifically, she was hoping to find a sweat lodge. Needless to say, we hit it off as we traded stories of the good, the bad, and the Ugli fruit, although our conversation seemed to be focused more on the nutjobs down at the FDA.

Walnuts to be exact. A miracle food. Capable of sustaining human life, yet only five percent of our population incorporates the naturally evolved menu of tree nuts into their diet. Rich in omega-3s, antioxidants, free radical killer, cholesterol lowerer, healthy heart advocate, and they're even shown to stop cancer growth in mice, so no wonder the FDA wants to classify them as a regulated drug. Can't have our sickly consumers going nutty as they derail the gravy train of the pharmaceutical giants, the only ones able to afford the price tag on their costly approval process. But alas, turns out that the FDA didn't actually want to make headlines faster than a corduroy pillow, they were merely using their intimidation techniques to censor the health claims being made from the all-natural walnut industry. If it's not made in a lab, then you can't advertise its health benefits. Only drugs heal people. Please see plastic packaging for possible side effects.

And then there's the Almond orchards still trying to squeeze out every last drop from a dilapidated landscape. Forced to live in a dried out desert without access to water, so the only option is to steal it from the poor as we further liquidate the rich. Barren of the buzz necessary to pollinate such excessive nutfarms, we literally ship eighty percent of the nation's commercial Honeybees across the country for two weeks of double dipping. A contrived process which is no doubt just as destructive to the insect's way of life, as the other myriad of offenses we've enacted in the name of winning the convenience war.

But whatever would we do without our nut based knockoff of an animal by-product? One that we didn't even evolve to consume, and only in recent western culture have we replaced the healthy habit of lacto-fermentation, with destructive homogenization and the even more hazardous process of pasteurization. Probably shoulda just drank the two-thousand gallons of water that it took to produce that cup of milk, or twice that for the Almond alternative.

But no worries, even after the Bees have stopped milking the Almonds, once our chemicals and technologies have driven their populations into the ground, the same tech company will be there to pick us back up. How convenient. They have robo-bees now. For real, no joke, robotic bees to facilitate the artificial pollination of agriculture's highest tech, but does it still count as organic? And RoboHoney? Are we now entering a dystopic future of full metal yellowjackets? Are we saving an ecosystem, or are we just validating our destruction in the pursuit of progress? No need to worry about the damage of our future poisons and frequency jammers, as long as we keep at it, we'll be able to replace the ecocide with tomorrow's technology.

Or they could just replace us. I'm pretty sure I've seen these stingers in a teenage mutant video game before, no doubt fully hackable by the NSA and their latest scapegoat of terror. Outfitted with camera and microphone as it surveils undetected, or sleeper cells packing a stinger full of genocidal neurotoxin, but we already knew that agriculture was poisonous. That's right, this wasn't even an ecosystem, it was a giant field of a modified monocrop that a disparate farmer was cornered into buying from monsanto. And now that their genetic pesticides have killed off the Bees even faster than they're killing us, well, guess the farmer's on the hook to order a big ol' box of beebots by spring.

*******

This way of life is absurd. A completely unsustainable globaculture of agribusiness, where our only solution to the endless list of problems we create, is to comically throw more problems at them. But the thing is, I like technology too. Far more useful than agriculture as we expand the evolution of the human experience. I may be on a path of minimal plugging-in, as I return to the old ways in search of wisdom and understanding, but part of that is understanding that I will never understand the complexity of this cosmic web. For me to believe in any type of divine purpose for the universe, or for myself, it would be pretty short sighted to write-off the miraculous things possible through innovations of the heart. Although progress is the executioner of perfection, it would still be naive to assume that nothing good could come out of this digital destruction.

As agents of information, together we've evolved the collective unconsciousness to this incredible level, a simply complex understanding of how the mechanics of the material world function. How could this have been for nothing? How can I retain a concept of any cosmic order, if this has all been some type of anomaly. So there you go, whether or not I'll ever be enlightened to the magnitude of our interconnectedness, I certainly believe that there is a future capable of integrating technology with an existence beneficial to our planet.

We're not there yet though. It will take an honest introspection to even begin to catalog the obstacles that technology puts in our path, and somehow all in the name of convenience. Like our complete disconnect from the non-human natural world, or from each other, or from ourselves. Or the environmental impacts due to the production and installation of solar panels, as they currently justify our growing dependence on electricity. If there's any chance of ever experiencing a true techno-utopia, free of destructive oppression and oppressive destruction, I only see one way for the math to ever work out. We have to remove money from the equation.

If we can dissolve the only motive that would ever necessitate a way of life blinded to the environmental cost of low prices, we can begin to use our newfangled science to offer reparations to the natural world that we destroyed as fast as we discovered. We also have to continue to remember that we are natural. We are nature. We are not above it. We are not better than any of the rest. We absolutely must end the bigotry of human supremacy. Money has been the instrument of prioritizing the classes of our own kind, but even without it, we will have to relearn that we are not in charge of the planet, we are in charge of taking care of her.

"Earth Mother is calling, her children home"

*******

She saved my number as DJ Sweatlodge, but I hadn't had a phone since the national guard bulldozed my last one, and I was on my way off-grid to finish my anticulture manifesto, while I moonlit as a farmhand. Honestly, I had no idea what kind of scenario I was walking into. I only knew that a small group of water protectors would be sweating for the solstice, no other details, but a complete trust that I would be in the right place. Not building expectations, leaves you much more free for adventure. Who knows what type of opportunity this return to ceremony could manifest? Who would want to?

And now this particular tale of crossroads has brought me to my own. I've internally debated the logistics of writing this book, and always landed on the ultimate faith that I will follow my heart and do whatever feels right in the moment. Well, the moment has come. How can I share the elegance created by the interwoven paths of the water protectors, without simultaneously drawing a blueprint of the movement and faxing it to dapl. Sure, I wrote about all that other stuff at camp, but I changed names and kept descriptions vague as I switched up a few details. Even with their admitted use of facebook hacking to map our infrastructure, the close-minded intelligence community would be hard pressed to get anything useful out of such a freshman attempt at prose.

But if I started connecting the dots of our family tree, while it would create a more compelling invitation for you to join us on this fantastical journey, I would have to remember that the journey is now. We're still in it. We are the resistance, and even though I know in my heart that we will win, I must resist the urge to write as though we already have. I can't risk compromising the revolution. If I am to build on characters previously seen on the Standing Rock Show, then I will be forced to censor myself for the good of the cause. I can't do it. I can only write from the heart.

So only one option for anonymity, extreme makeovers all around. Witness protection program for the whole family. You get a new name, you get a new name. Intentional vagueness and misinformation as I lead you on a narrative that one should assume, is more interconnected than even I understand. You may speculate on who is who and what it all means, may even get some of it right as I struggle to mask my love for the closest of allies, but for any definitive proof, you'll have to wait for the post-completion animated series I'm saving for retirement. And they say I don't plan ahead.

*******

I got to town at dawn, on the second day of ceremony, where Benjamin scooped me up and hauled me to the outskirts of the matrix. "Hoka, brother." Or "c'mon" or "it's time to ride" or "s'go den." A Lakota battlecry to rally the team, though it seems that before we started shooting at them, it was more like an enthusiastic cheer at a pep rally.

It was still a good day to die, a spiritual warrior's commitment of living life to its fullest, but also the heartsong of all who hold death as sacred as the life they live, and what better day than today? What an incredible honor to give my energy back to the Earth on such a magnificent day as today, and with that in your heart, nothing can stop you.

I remembered Ben a bit from the winter, we weren't too close, but I musta left a good enough taste in his mouth that he didn't hesitate to cover the import cost of getting the chef to camp. Well, not quite a camp, or even much of a farm for that matter, more like an elaborate homestead with agricidal tendencies. One could imagine the interesting conflicts with my new worldview, but I just practiced a little humility and saw this synchronicity as an opportunity to better understand another perspective. To see more clearly the gray area between gardening and farming. Plus, he was a water protector. A guardian of the sacred. A defender of the Earth and all participants of life. This was a biologically clean operation as humane as humanly possible. Maybe not a design of divine perfection, but certainly as close to Eden as I could hope to stumble onto with the first step of my new adventure.

And what is the possible alternative in today's concrete jungle? At my grandmother's, I ate the genetically modified run-off of mainstream factory farms, and had to fight just to keep it out of the microwave. So this has to be a better solution, right? Cutting out the cage of capitalism, but hanging onto the fences of ownership. Where exactly is the line between managing the garden and controlling it? What are the morally sound transitional steps we can grow through, as we wean our agricultural civilization off of the formula that led to its own obesity? Therein lies the question, the philosophies that consume my waking life, and how miraculous that I should arrive at such a destined nation at the precise climax of my aggregated culture. Or the coincidentally remarkable launching point for this next inward trajectory of breaking out.

This place was pretty much paradise. I couldn't hope to pray about envisioning a manifestation of a more perfect place to return to a good way of life. I stayed in the Apple barn, no longer an orchard, it served as a sort of hilltop headquarters and the primary kitchen on the farm. So, I have a room built onto the back of the kitchen? Mmhmm...

There were still a few Apple Trees though, and the Nectarines were exploding with flavor for another week or two. Fruit filled the bottom of the fridge, then a shelf stacked with egg cartons and big jars of raw milk at varying stages of separation. Matter of fact, picking me up had delayed the morning chores, we had to milk Lacey before she got too upset at us.

A quick walk to the horse barn and I was officially milking my first Cow. Neat. Trying to stay open minded as I explore the grayer areas of my unconscious conscience. The barn kitty rushes over for her payment, a few warm squirts to the face of today's on tap crème du jour, utterly delightful. Lacey doesn't seem too bothered by the whole ordeal, she led the way and knew exactly which stall we'd be in. And she knew we were late. Because everyday when she gets milked, she gets a nice big scoop of milled wheat. Her neck is in bars, and loose chains keep her from kicking, but this is certainly the highlight of her day. Far more luxurious than the animal farms in my head. Her and her cellmate share the fence with a big field, grass fed happy Cows, and the scoop of Wheat is as clean as kitty's milkbowl. Although he does have a hand crank mill, we used a half-Horse motor to finish grinding up last years grain harvest. Now, I might not be all that edumacated, but I don't reckon half a Horse would be all that strong.

*******

Horsepower. A modern day unit of strength, but one spouted out with little-to-no thought of what it really means. Here, there were two giant work Horses, complete with a utility belt of gadgets to be implemented at a moment's notice. The entire farm could be operated without oil. Very cool. The Wheat could be collected to the acoustic whoosh of a Horse drawn harvest, instead of the toxic vibrations of diesel exhaust. A two horsepower engine. Two Horses, being held in captivity, as they trade their lifeforce for the universal right of access to food. Sounds similar to both the slavery of our past, and the current brainwashing of the working class. Better grab a whip.

But these dudes have a kush job, never more than a few hours a day, a bucket of feed to convince us that it's symbiosis, plus they get a big fence to run around in, while they imagine what it's like out in the other 123 billion acres of planet that we are all supposed to be a part of. And they do seem to like working, they've been humavolved for that exact task, and their ability to follow commands remotely, actually expands their range of cart pulling convenience.

Could I possibly prefer petroleum over the sweat equity of an indentured servant? But how could I even own a Horse to begin with? How could I claim command over my brother's life essence? The two-legged came from the four-legged. Mitakuye Oyasin, we are all related. #endhumansupremacy

*******

But this is still the first day, I'm just taking it all in and experiencing the transition into the cleanest way of life I've ever experienced. This was my happiest day since camp, emotionally healthy, mentally stable, I had been working through my issues, and my prayers had just literally come true. And it hasn't stopped getting better since. This expectationless lifestyle has me expecting the impossible tomorrow. And somehow it just keeps happening.

We hopped in the truck and drove up the mountain to the sweat lodge, with gridless bootcamp already underway, it was time for me to learn to firetend for the inipi. I was pretty stoked. The coals were still smoldering from an overnight stump, so we prayed with some Tobacco and Saged the city off of ourselves. We sang a few songs into the hills, I had only picked up that one from camp, but I poured it out for all to hear. Less a poetic romanticization of nature, and more directly directed at the ears of our brother Charlie. He was out there on hembleciya. Up on the hill. Vision quest. Four days alone with our mother. With our creator. In ceremony. No food. No water. Left only with the distractions of internal dialog, as inner demons start to voice their opinions. It's time to pray.

Charlie was my homie, so I couldn't help but be bummed about waiting three more days to see him, but I also understood the importance of this sacred ceremony as he prepared for Sun Dance. Or I was beginning to at least. He was getting some work done inside that circle of prayer ties, purifying his mind, body, and spirit, to ensure maximum prayer capital at Sun Dance. I've even heard someone say that hembleciya is just as powerful a prayer as the vibration of the dance itself. A personal journey within, no distractions other than your own psyche, a connection to the stars as you cry out for a vision, a different way to pray than the collected effort of communal ritual. And we'll be at the foot of the hill, in the lodge, praying for you brother. You'll hear our song through the heat and darkness. You'll know that we're beside you. God it feels good to have returned to ceremony.

*******

So a couple of big logs running east to west, a bunch of small stuff between them, then four split pieces crosshatching a platform. The cradle. The mechanics of getting the rocks so freaking hot. Here, we don't need a fire big enough for a giant pile of lava rocks, we'd only use seven stones, or grandfathers. Benjamin credited the age and density of these east coast rocks with their warming sensations, they hold so much more energy of our ancestors, seven will be plenty, load 'em up.

We alternated holding stones as we prayed to the four directions, we thanked the spirits for hearing our prayers and joining our ceremony. A stone for Tunkasila, Grandfather Sky, the rain of the sun and all of the universe. And Unci Maka, Grandmother Earth, the world we came out of, not into, and our direct connection to the hierarchy of universal macrocosms. The last stone goes inside, the seventh direction is inward, and there lies the key to the entire map, yes, the creator within is the stuff legends are made of. With the cradle now rocked, we fully encapsulate the whole deal with wood, stones pop sometimes, so we have to fence them in for their own safety. No worries though, they'll burn their cage down in no time.

This time yesterday, I was stuffing the anxiety of surviving society into a knapsack, and now here I was in the calming spiritual center of such a magical mountain majesty. This spot was even more disconnected from colonization than the farm, which fostered a deeper connection to everything that actually matters. I was back. My body had returned to spirit. Felt like home. Then the others started showing up.

Brothers. Whether I knew them or not, they were water protectors. We are all related. But of course this infinitely complex fabric of existence never seems to disappoint, or we can just call it luck that every single person there, had also been in my very first sweat back at camp, my maiden voyage into the frozen depths of universal consciousness. Pretty cool, and I've spoken to other protectors who shared similar stories of uncanny coincidences surrounding their returns to the inipi. I hadn't really known most of these guys at camp, but we remembered each other enough to share the ultimate trust that comes with being a card carrying member of the water protecting club. JK, I don't carry an ID, sorry officer, musta left it in el segundo.

So we sweat, hot as fireballs, spiritually out of shape, but also more connected than ever, felt good, felt clean, and then came the best part. Instead of the fourth door leading to a winter wonderland of instant frostbite, we completed the purification ceremony with seven dunks into the clear water of the spring fed pond. The crispy mni ignited a new wave of connection, and apparently he does this year round, yikes. A few big gulps of water before the mud gets stirred, the only pollution making it this far up is that raining from the chemtrails above. It's a pretty solid platform that this dock provides the structural integrity of our circular life, I can't imagine a time when I would have eaten seafood less touched by the taint of man.

We regrouped around what was left of the fire, passed the chanupa, and sent our final heartstring vibrations into the universe through a puff of smoke. I grabbed a few Wineberries, wild Raspberries, and then back to HQ to light a fire under the chef. We still had hours of best daylight ever left, and I got to spend it in the kitchen I had been dreaming about. No electric stove. No propane. It was the exact woodburning kit that I had already written into manifestation.

A small compartment on the left for old barn wood to burn, super dry, doesn't take much if you split it up and make a crisscrossed stack. High heat above the fire and a gradient of warmth across the surface of the instrument, definitely took a little finesse to tune the fretless temperature gauge of the cast iron. There was a knob that redirected airflow once the fire was going, it retained the heat better and slowed the burn, as it circulated hot air over and around the central oven compartment.

Aho. Wopila Tanka. The exact farm implement I'd been actively trying to manifest, and there were still secret compartments and upgrades under the hood. There were sliding doors on the warming cabinets up top, and another warming chamber on the right that could also heat liquids, but it was the retrofitted aquacycle that kept us perpetually in hot water. A small tank was mounted inside of the firebox, and as the water inside it gained temperature, it was propelled towards the exterior reservoir that collected heat as it recirculated to the firebox tank. The by-product of this stove was a radiator full of hot water that lasted into the next day. Now that's convenience.

*******

Though nothing is ever quite as innocent as it seems, there's of course another eco-impact to take into account. Wait, are you talking about fire? Burning wood. Fire is who we are. It's even more fundamental to our under-evolved existence than agriculture. Certainly you're not going to suggest that we cut fire out of our diet too.

Doubtful. I have a sacred relationship with fire. Each Earthly path to spiritual connection is elemental in nature, and mine is most assuredly through the flame. But it has also given me the humility to take an honest look at what it means to be human. What it means to share the responsibility of learning the depths of our destruction, while understanding that we are the only ones that can do anything about it. So hopefully I don't have to put the heat on blast, would be a canon backfire if that happened, but just because we founded a civilization on it, I'm still not trying to burn down our planet. Luckily, the synchronistic conveniences of the natural world lighten the load of firewood a bit, it seems that wood releases the exact same amount of carbon emissions whether it's burned, or decomposes on the ground. Score.

So is that it then? Doesn't this mean that I can cook dinner without dilemma? Minimal impact and maximum flavor. I also realize that I'm out there on the spectrum, at times extreme with my philosophical meanderings, but I also feel that the approach is the only way to fully realize our greatest potential. My style of systematically shedding the artificial conveniences of the material system, is directly correlated with my concept of sharing the planet with the rest of the world. Do unto others. We are all related. So I can't do something that I wouldn't want you to do. Or that I wouldn't want everyone to do. All at the same time.

For a way of life to truly be non-destructive, it would still have to function at a global scale, and with our oversized population, this is more critical than ever. I could drive to the neighborhood grocery store, and if I was the only car on the planet, I bet she'd hardly even notice. But if all of a sudden there were billions of cars, and car factories, and car junkyards, and gas stations, and oil spills from leaky pipelines, well, now I can see that the little things do add up.

I want to be a positive contribution to the delinquency of society. I don't want every person to fence off an acre of ecosystem out of fear, I want them to give freely with the heartfelt feeling of abundance. I don't think they should each create a daily bag of garbage without thought, but I do think that if they considered the facts, if every single person realized that the pollution of the money train is the engine behind the entire clockworks, if every human Earthling joined me in boycotting the dollar while picking up trash and loving one another, then the world would be a much better place.

Now I'm just confused though, does that mean I can get fired up or not? My small cookstove is certainly of minimal impact, but what does a planet with eight billion fires look like? We're greenhousing this mother. But equal carbon emissions, remember? That wood would have had the same footprint, even if ours were nowhere to be seen. So, fire good. How long does that take though? For wood to decompose and release its energy? Way longer than burning a hole in your pocket. So it may have the same log-term effects in each tree's environmental impact study, but if eight billion fires each reduce a single tree's half-life to half a day, there will be a surefire change to the chemistry of life on Earth.

And just like fire, changes to our planet's melting pot are completely natural, and were happening long before we manifested our destiny. That's how we got invited to the party in the first place. It was the Cyanobacteria to be more specific. Some of the original inhabitants of our secondhand home, except that we didn't inherit it from our parents, we borrow it from our children.

For hundreds of millions of years, they pretty much had the place to themselves, as they excreted hunourmous amounts of the specific toxic emission that led to their own mass extinction. A poisonous by-product of their civilization's method of converting stored energy into motion. And they just let it spew into the atmosphere until the entire species suffocated in a cloud of fumes. A prehistorical precedent of an organism on a collision course for self destruction. And what was this life crippling substance exactly? Oxygen.

They created the oxygen rich skyline that choked out their worldview as it empowered the complexity of life on Earth. So does that make the Cyanobacteria the bad guy? A single species causing a global extinction event. But they followed natural law, so it was completely legal in the eyes of our mother, she was better off for it as she leveled up to a new stage of planetary evolution, it seems it was only the Cyanobacteria who fell out of paradise. Just like how she'll be way better off after the destructions of our civilization, once carbon breathing plastic eaters fill the next planetary niche.

Wide scale shifts in chemistry happen in nature, which result in temperature changes, which result in water cycle variances, which drastically change a giant island's ecology. Nothing to worry our pretty little heads over, global warming is a totally natural occurrence, it's just that so is a worldwide extinction of the particular species that brings it on. And their millions of years of experience, kind of nullifies the argument of a so-far-so-good track record.

So now we have to assume that each and every fire has a specific environmental impact. We can also assume that the ancient wisdom of the indigenous firekeeps, was just as in-tune with the language of the garden as anybody else was. Through their deeper connection to the bigger picture of the planet, they used ritual and prayer to find equilibrium between the yin and yang of the natural world. We pray to the Buffalo Nation, Tatanka Oyate, and through our sacred practice of taking only what we need, abundance remains for everyone. If instead, we lose sight and slaughter them all as we harvest their skin for profit, then the entire nomadic ecology that followed their migration is out of luck. So if my community's way of life preserves oxygen abounding habitats instead of clearcutting them, then there's a good chance that I'm all up to fire code.

And, also, we evolved with fire. Not for most of the trip, but longer than agriculture, by far. Pre-humans caught on to fire, which probably led to us being human in the first place. Anthropologetic scientists think that the use of fire led to adaptations of the jaw, meat was easier to chew when it was cooked, which selected for lighter mandibles. With less demand for energy to eat, the excess was converted to brainpower as the evolution of the ego grew out of hand. Central heat also greatly reduced the calories required to survive the night, which enabled farther travel into expanses previously unthinkable. So obviously fire is here to stay, even I'm not crazy enough to suggest otherwise, but it need not be overlooked that everything we do has an environmental impact, and once we've destroyed the environment, we will be the ones most impacted.

*******

Good thing I landed on yes, otherwise I'd have missed out on the best popcorn of my life. Benjamin had grown it last year and put it in the freezer before it was completely dried, so the moisture in some kernels, caused them to only half explode into little yellow puffs that almost tasted buttery. Even the unpopped ones crunched, now just a splash of super heady salt and it was on.

Salt was one of the few items imported to the farm. Salt, Black Peppercorns, Coconut oil, and the occasional dark chocolate bar. He had actually once gone three years without buying a single thing. But even in this land of plenty, it seems not everything can just materialize out of the Sun and the Earth and the water. Most of it though.

Assuming we can get the whole salt tree thing figured out, we're probably still a few years of global warming away from the appalachian Coconut orchard's fruition. So what are our options? If we can reduce the radius from which we obtain ninety-nine percent of our calories, what's the big deal of importing a select few of the necessities of nutrition? Well, we could start by looking at the monocropping practices of the impoverished countries who supply our growing demand, but I'd bet you already know where I stand on the single-handed homogenization of our planet's dwindling biodiversity.

Clear-cutting the Mangrove forests that regulate erosion, is likely the only way to meet production requirements, but the math gets a little tricky once this balloon of hot air gets over-inflated. Over the last ten years, our country's Coconut consumption has increased by 1000%. Isn't that grand? Especially for the equatorial economies in the equation. You'd think, but most people don't, and don't want to. Faced with the implications of impact, they'd have to examine the extreme poverty of Coconut farmers, some of the very poorest in the world.

With the single-crop success of a low-yield drupe eroding profit margins, growers only pocket about a dime per Coconut. In a good season, discounting of course the unnatural increase of natural disasters, they can expect to harvest around 18,000 pesticidal nuts per acre. Seems like a lot when I consider the dangerous task of climbing all those corporate ladders, but it's only eighteen hundred dollars a year per acre. Makes it a little tight to provide a proper healthcare package, but that works out since the child labor pool often employed, aren't really that experienced at contract negotiation. And if kids aren't your thing, if the animal nation makes up the priorities of your prerogatives, then it's probably worth mentioning the chained necks of the enslaved Monkeys who hand-picked your pina colada. But is it still vegan?

And is it any worse than all the other third world productions? Conscious consumers can always research the various fair-trade practices of purchase, but even once diesel powered industrialization revolves around to their side of the globe, they still have to ship the commodification of their backyard to ours. How much oil are you willing to burn for that piece of frybread? What are the acceptable limits of collateral damage? How long of a list of ecological destructions and primate rights violations, does it take before the cost of doing business outweighs the health benefit? How much oppression are you willing to personally spread into the world, so that you may enjoy a life of luxury? Only a sixteenth of the Earth's population live in this world of excess, the other ninety-four percent pay for it.

But how would we ever survive without it? The important importation of a non-native menu is a fundamental building block of colonization. Of course, so is a non-native population. Certainly they were on their way out anyway though, unless they were canoeing for Coconuts then their fragile little bodies would never have survived a winter without the tropical fruit. I'll hope that between my sarcasm and your intelligence, it's understood that I'm joking, and also that it's not funny. That's pretty standard though.

The Coconut explosion is arguably healthier than the long-chain fatty acids of hot oil mechanization, but there's no argument about the superiority of naturally evolved local food systems. The locavore enjoys the undeniably reliable nutrient richness of symbiotic partnerships, ones that simultaneously benefit the systems of ecology and digestion. The indigenous inhabitants of the land your grocery store sits on, were far healthier than the colonicization of our current occupation.

The promoters of agriculture and western medicine, who of course are one and the same, love to boast about their boost to human life expectancy. They do, however, forget to mention the part about agriculture being directly responsible for the very ailments that plague our population. Studies around the world have shown that when a culture transitions into an agricultural way of life, they suffer from widespread disease and bone deterioration. We become far more brittle than a planter's Peanut farm.

Of course, the indigestion of inferior food isn't the only culprit, the decrease of personal living space and the increase of un-ergonomic hard labor can't be discounted when totaling the cost of this american life. Then there's the modern tradition of broken dental records. It's highly documented that pre-agricultural humans had way better teeth than their current counterparts, but we have to ensure the income brackets of the working class dentist's union somehow. American natives not only chewed with champion chompers, they regularly lived over a hundred years and were more highly evolved than us in every way. Well, every way except one.

While agriculture definitely lowers the quality of life of all organisms it encounters, humans are a pretty resilient group of people. We can even adapt to the agrinomic culture of civility. Only takes a few thousand years of weakened populations dying off, often the lower class with less access to healthcare, and not-so-suddenly we're able to digest gluten grains with the best of them. Kinda.

Egyptian archaeologists have found proof of deteriorated skeletal structures coinciding with their advent of agriculture, and then a slow restrengthening period spanning millenia. Native Americans, however, are just a few generations into the recovery program, and it's easy to see the degeneration of the so-called colonized cleansing of the continent. The Lakota have only been pushed into the white man's world over the last seven generations, starting with a treaty that pressured the tribes to cultivate the land that we temporarily deemed infertile enough to let them keep. Predisposed to diabetes and alcoholism, as well as a host of other diseases, and not nearly as known for their pearly white supremacy.

*******

So what were they like? The pre-america americans? What made them so special? Well, certainly exceptional vibration sensory, vision and hearing and that kinda stuff. And let's consider how on top of their game they were before the introduction of the Horse. Imagine just how physically on point they must have been in order to hunt for the tribe, quick like the Rabbit, strong like the Buffalo. No wonder we had such a hard time wiping them out, even with all the guns we brought to an arrow fight. And while the indians proved to be fantastic riders, they certainly questioned the morality of 'breaking' any member of our Earthbound family. There is of course the method of beating them into submission, a little too close to home for a people whose home was closing in on them, but luckily their connection to the songs in the wind helped them whisper sweet nothings into the ears of their new allies. They also didn't lock them in prison for a crime against nature. Holding your brother in a barn cell and exchanging food for hard labor, is not symbiotic, it's slavery.

Although the farm was in so many ways a perpetual paradise, it still stalled out a little too much for me. Besides the two fenced-in work Horses, there was another equine who lived in the barn. A race Horse. A Horse kept in its stall for twenty-three and a half hours per day, only allowed to run in the yard for her practice lap each morning. Gotta keep her in shape, which means running at top speed for a fraction of a mile at a time, then back to thinking inside the box. She was most definitely taken care of, conversated with, poop was scooped, and she ate only the most expensive food and hay. And we all know that money equals love, even if she was on the hook to earn her keep with a victory lap.

Contrary to the cliches of the common, however, it seems that money cannot conquer all. During my stay, Benjamin was offered a free ride on an unwanted broken Horse. His previous master also 'owned' an entire sports team of athletes, who were probably just as likely to get canned for a broken ankle on their practice lap. After a work-related injury, the Horse was thrown away. Purely a monetary investment into the lifeforce of another, the dude had to cut his losses. Just get rid of it. Glue, Dog food, whatever it takes. Ben wasn't sure about taking him on, even a free Horse will cost a lot to board, plus rehabbing the ankle will take up a lot of time. But after a night of discussion we landed on the obvious, can't look a gift Horse in the mouth.

He was funny, undeniably a sentient being, and anytime I went into his stall, he'd try to prank me. Gotta love a good prank. And he was in his stall all day, everyday. No morning jog. His hurt ankle meant that he needed a solid month of rehabilitation. Confinement. Personal treatment from an experienced and loving caretaker. From an injury sustained performing for the entertainment and profit of his captors. Fellow beings of life's energy. Children of our mother. Unci Maka. Fruit of the Earth. Brothers.

So sure, he's better off recovering in Benjamin's barn than whatever the other option was gonna be, but that's still voting between the lesser of two evils, and we all know how well that works out. It's hard for me to push back against that kinda horsepower though, as much as it seems to me that another species carrying the weight of humankind is unfair, does that make the more ethical alternative... petroleum? Destroy the livelihood of the many to save the freedom of the few? That's a toughie. And the native cultures I look to for guidance, didn't seem to have too much of a problem ponying up, though we know first hand that the tribes are not immune to the convenience of the colonized, especially when the well-being of their family is at stake. But through their connection to the song of our planet, they understood that we are all related.

That Horse is our brother. I can't lock him away any more than I could imprison my sweet little old grandmother. He's certainly spread less destruction to the scarred face of our unconditionally loving mother.

So what then? If we love him, set him free? Would he be any better off in the wild world of wilderness? If we're going to continue to believe this fairy tale of human supremacy, that it's a fair deal to trade our brains for their brawn, if there's to be any semblance of symbiosis, then we have to exercise our humility far more than a half hour a day. If our relationship were truly mutually beneficial, then there would be no need to force them to stay. Animals aren't idiots. They're instinctually hardwired for survival. If they are genuinely grateful for services rendered, then they'll have no problem putting their mouth where your money is.

*******

This is all well and good, and I bet Benjamin's with me on a fenceless perfect world, but how could this ever be a reality within the confines of the modern dystopia of premature man? Forget the Horses for a bit, they've got a proven track record of a wild childhood, let's instead focus our blinders on the cattle we carelessly contain for consumption. Unable to run off, as their toxic runoff pollutes the very stream of consciousness that we intend to wash our steaks down with.

Benjamin had a few hundred Cows that he rotated between greener pastures. Grass fed and certainly happier than the branded bovine of commercial colonialism. And as for the electro-shock therapy of an electric fence? Well, that's in place for their safety, just as much as it is for the protection of investment. Kinda like that time the national guard told us that we weren't safe on the bridge, and then started shooting at us.

But would the herd be any better off if I started clipping the wires that hold back their evolution? No more adapted for life on this continent than the revolutionaries of the american convolution. Nevermind the circle of life that keeps the wheels of this sphere turning, the squares of civilization are the building blocks of institution. In my vision of a world without pasturization, the mooers and milkshakers would journey down the path less traveled, except that we paved the roads ahead, and now they're more congested than the intolerant dairy drinkers divided on the highway.

If I cut the herd loose and they follow the Chicken across the street, all it takes is one texting cattle driver to t-bone the populations of all involved. Cow dies. Motorist dies. Benjamin gets sued and has to slaughter the rest of them to cover the loss. And the rising insurance premiums ensure that at least one bandit makes a profit at the expense of another's life. As long as we're convinced that the accelerated lifestyle of asphalt drag strips are the most efficient destruction of our future, until mankind admits that there are other avenues worth exploring, if we just keep on trucking while we sleep at the wheel, it's gonna prove pretty difficult to get any sleep until the Cows come home.

But why would they even want to come home? What's in it for them? Well, what's in it for me? Why am I here? Why am I so mesmerized by this mythical garden, where everything I could ever want just manifests from the dust of the Earth? I, of course, am already intimately familiar with the poisons of the racing humans, so I have a head start on steering away from the toxic highway to hell. I'm also on the guest list. I have an all-access pass to this bottomless buffet. I'm a member of the chosen species whose dietary needs come first. I get to cut to the front of the line, doesn't really matter how hungry everyone else is. And the most convenient part of the whole thing, is that this place is filled with the very foods I love to eat. Why would I ever want to leave?

Imagine a world without roads. C'mon, it's not that impossible. Cars haven't been around that long, plus the tank's already on empty. We've nearly siphoned our mother dry, and once the fracked fuel of the future runs out, there'll be no need to look either way before crossing the street. Or perhaps down the road we figure this whole thing out, alternative energy and flying cars, probably powered by spicy dunes of Worm poop or something. We may flip a few Birds as we jam up the airwaves, but maybe now the cybercows can be home free on the range.

Or what if we decided to do something about it now, instead of condemning our descendants to a destiny of destitution? What if we took a new perspective on owning the road and decided to share the planet? Like, maybe we don't carve an impassable scar right through existing animal migration routes. Turns out that it's actually quite inconsiderate. We're so good at guarding bridges at gunpoint, what if instead, we built one between us and our eco-community? Although our current destruction techniques, sorry, meant construction techniques, even if we spread poisons wherever we go, I bet the herds would still appreciate an occasional underpass to the greener grass of the other side.

*******

So now that the road to nowhere is out of the equation, unmending the fence is way more feasible. If we don't insist on having a Cow, they'll be free to enjoy life in all its glory. Even a Donkey brain can wrap their head around this one. If we're all composed of the same energy of creation, stardust, all here to grow and learn through our Earthly experiences, just how captivating could the life story of a captive Cow possibly be?

But we eat meat. Obviously. Though we only became the largest steakholders in the animal kingdom once we exterminated the millions of roaming Buffalo. Buffalo that didn't need a cage to let them know what they could eat. They ate whatever they wanted. And so did the Lakota. Hardly a vegan in the bunch, yet plenty of protein to power the tribe through winter. So how did they do it before the golden age of consumerism? The razor wire revolution? How could they ever manage to fill their bellies without managing a prison camp of minimal provisions?

Simple. They simply didn't destroy the vast gardens of Buffalo food. They understood that by leaving the ecosystem intact, every species had more than enough sustenance to thrive. Including humans. So what can we learn through our mistakes of eradicating a continent's worth of ancient wisdom? How about, "if you don't build it, they will come." If we can develop a system of not developing every single ecosystem, the Cows will be happier than ever as they're heard laughing throughout the hillsides, as was reported of the original peoples of this very mountain valley. If we resume our roles as stewards of paradise, keeping in mind the preferred diets of our preferred diet, well, beef is what's for dinner.

It's not just the border wall that needs knocking down though, our internal power struggle keeps our gardens plugged into the grid. Our grand delusions of manmade privilege convince us that we have the human right to keep the rest of our family's food under lock and key. Here at the farm, so much of the edible landscape was up for grabs, fruit trees and fish and a fountain of fresh water, but you needed an opposable thumbprint to gain access to the VIP area. Inside the vault's security cage was a modest few rows of vegetation. Tons of Sweet Potatoes (Benjamin's year round staple), Green Beans, Squash, Onions, Okra, Tomatoes, Basil, a bunch of other stuff, and even a bit of my old friend Corn.

The Cat that lived in the Apple barn with me, loved to eat it right off the cob. In the kitchen, sure, organic farm felines eat a wider variety of foods than your average city kitty, but this dude would sneak into the garden to stalk his prey. The Cat was free to go as he pleased, not bound by barbed wire, yet he stayed around day after day. He had everything he needed. Food was everywhere. He even got a bowl of fresh milk every day, possibly a fair trade for services rendered, especially when the service was hunting and eating a barnful of rodents. He also knew he could commandeer a cob without too much risk of penalty. Certainly no capitalized punishment. So the Cat came back, but anyone else that tries to break in, is sentenced to death.

*******

Somebody was getting into the Sweet Potatoes, uh oh, they done gone and done it now. Gotta show 'em who's boss. I Yam he-man. We took a metal spring-loaded trap, designed to kill the intruder instantly, and stuck it in the Groundhog tunnel under the fence. It worked faster than you can say unencumbered Cucumbers. Gotta check the trap often in the summer heat, and soon enough we were dressing a Groundhog, although it seemed more like undressing to me. Yeah, of course we're gonna eat him, that's the only way we can justify taking a life out of rotation. May the circle be unbroken.

We laid him to rest on a bed of homegrown Garlic, Onions, Potatoes and Carrots, then we fired up the oven. The great part about this oven, besides basically everything about it, was the built-in timer. We roasted it until it was almost done, and then a final fire stoke before we took off to the sweat lodge. No need to worry about burning dinner, the fire will only last so long and the hot stove will keep it all nice and warm. We're way more likely to overheat in the inipi.

I came to the farm on the second day of a four day solstice ceremony, no intentions beyond that. The solstice was now over, Charlie came down off the hill for a joyous reunion of brothers, and we all decided that we hadn't quite had our fill of the lodge. The sacred fire had burned nonstop for the last few days, it would be a shame to extinguish its energy at this point, so we just kept it going. We sweat almost everyday for the next month and a half, forty-five sweats from solstice to Sun Dance. It gave me the chance to pick up a handful of new songs, which helped me to get a lot more out of the ceremony, as I wrapped myself in prayer to overcome the enveloping heat wave. All of us glad to see that Charlie survived his hembleciya, although he did have a close call with a wandering Bear, and I have just the treat to celebrate. Fire roasted, Sweet Potato fed, fresh caught Groundhog of the day... tasted like Chicken.

"Let's keep it burning, let's keep the flame of love alive"

*******

I made all sorts of dank food at the farm, obviously. The first few nights I settled in while Benjamin cooked the day's catch of fresh fish and a big plateful of fried eggs, two of the more abundant ingredients found on the farm, plus the obligatory popcorn and Sweet Potatoes. Once I was ready to take over the hot seat, it was time for the next step in the evolution of camp-style cooking. The cleanest eating that I had ever experienced. No GMOs, or chemicals, or propane, or silver nitrate, this was literally the place I had been dreaming about.

We had fresh milk every day that went into the rotation of two-gallon jars in the fridge. There was electricity on the farm, an above ground line, just enough to power a few refrigerators, freezers, and to charge electronics, which meant that I had everything I needed to finish typing 'Step One.' Funny how I was living in such a magical place, yet still glued to a screen for hours everyday and suffering from a laptop induced backache. Painfully funny.

Would have been nice to have been completely off the grid, but with the tiny amount of energy used here, it would have taken a lifetime to pay for itself. But what if during that same lifetime we experience inconsistencies with the influx of electricity? Won't take much to slow the flow, especially with the increase of natural disasters, manmade disasters, and manmade natural disasters. This place could certainly be a safe haven if something big were to go down, but it sure would be cool if we could figure out the refrigeration thing.

Of course, it's also worth considering that even solar panels might not be the most eco-conscious alternative under the Sun. Certainly miles beyond the fossilized petroleum industry, but still a manufacturing process requiring natural resources, plastics, and who knows what else. Let's assume we can figure all that stuff out, a solar panel factory powered by solar energy that utilizes renewables and recycled refuse. With the low energy dependence of the farm, this all seems pretty feasible, and feasibly pretty, but the mainstream's addiction to electricity may experience a culture shock of cutbacks. In order to meet our current demand, we'd have to litter every corner of the planet with panels, cables and batteries. Solar farms would take up space once occupied by ecosystems, while absorbing waves of star power which would otherwise be fueling an entire food chain of amino acids. But here we are, chained to a system of convenience instead. Sounds pretty inconvenient to me.

And sounds like indentured servitude, as we are pushed into a life of labor just so we can keep the lights on when we leave the room. A more practical practice would be to throttle our electric consumption, to limit our demands of excess that overstimulate the overflowing pockets of the overlords of capitalism. If we could reduce the powers that be, the energy crisis experienced only by a fraction of our species for only a fraction of our timeline, if we could just slow down the speeding up of convenience, I bet we'd find a way to power through.

Like, what if everyone cut back their electricity usage to what could be produced by their single rooftop solar panel? Or a rain fed waterwheel? Or a pedal powered phone charger? Or a giant hourglass that spun an alternator just fast enough to illuminate a digital clock? Bet they'd learn to cut the lights off, as they began to respect their way of life as a privilege and not a human right. In fact, they might understand that our privilege is generally at the cost of another's human rights. Like, for every kilowatt we pump in, we're killing water that is fundamental to us all.

Forget giant nuclear meltdowns contaminating the world's ocean, this stuff is even happening in the small NC town I grew up in. Everyone around Lake Norman knows that there are giant Catfish all over the place, but they also know that nobody eats out of the lake. It's poisonous. We flooded a habitat to create the lake, all in the name of dam electricity, and now we've destroyed that habitat too. Duke Energy, the largest energy monopoly in the country, also removes mountaintop habitats to extract coal, which releases over a hundred million pounds of carbon emissions each year, making them the third highest contributor in the nation. Recently, they've been in hot water with their leaky coal ash ponds, which are conveniently located in low income black neighborhoods, as they spew out toxic levels of arsenic, cadmium, chromium and lead. Clean energy indeed.

But once the unconscious consumers at home flip the switch on waking up to the true cost of living, we can make a difference. We'll start to appreciate everything that we take for granted. Faced with the impact of our footprint, it's easy to rationalize the rationing of our power struggle. To limit our use of a limited resource. To decide not to slide the electric thermostat up to eighty, and save enough juice so that our milk won't spoil, besides, we already cleared the whole burning wood thing.

And it didn't spoil, but it would separate. After a few days in the fridge, a couple inches of cream would settle on top of each jar. Good stuff. My first task would be to make butter, musta figured it our pretty well because it churned into the best butter I'd ever eaten, especially on a slice of fresh ground, whole Wheat, skillet bread. It was just pizza dough really, a simple recipe that I know by heart, so I patted out a thick slab and flipped it once in the covered cast iron. The grainy flour still warm from milling, today's butter melting into the dense loaf, absolutely perfect for sopping up the daily catch of fish and eggs. Only one logical place to go from here, the only choice that my free will can afford, obviously we have to make pizza.

*******

Got the dough on lock, sauce should be a cinch with such fresh ingredients, so now all we gotta say is cheese. I'm more of a big picture guy though, leave the cheese mongering to the sous chefs, and luckily my assistant this week was far more kitchen capable than I pretend to be. Sara was here for a few days to pick up the basics of beekeeping, plus the double bonus of our never ending sweat lodge. She threw together some Basil infused farm cheese, still pretty soft, but perfect for spreading on warm bread, and should do just fine on a melty pizza pie. While she was pressing the cheese for more information, she realized that we had everything we needed to make pesto. Awesome, and presto, the Walnut and Basil concoction would definitely set tonight's two pizzas apart. (But aren't Walnuts illegal?)

Of course, I was a little out of shape at cooking in an actual oven, although this one was pretty far removed from any modern elements. A little tricky since the heat circulated over the top of the oven chamber, the polar opposite of the frozen pizza grill I'd mastered over the winter. So the top got done way before the bottom, no worries though, I'm better at improvising than the best of the heady jam noodlers, so I just set it on the scorching surface of the flat top. Delicioso.

Plus, Sara could toss a salad like no other. Freshly foraged greens from the wild world of weeds. 'Weeds', of course carrying a negative reputation, but they grow so easily because they are a natural part of the ecosystem that you plowed under to plant your garden. And they're uber healthy. We already know that local wild edibles are supremely nutritious, which is why the supreme leaders of agrinomics convinced us to poison the freely growing abundance, while we struggle to get ahead of an inferior iceberg solution.

Her salad had a lot of Lamb's Quarter, her favorite forest food, as well as a staple for many indigenous cultures. Super high in vitamins A and C, and a whole bunch of other stuff, plus it's coated with a natural sodium dust, a simple salt solution to solve our spice supply situation. A variety of the plant is native to america, but it was such a staple of the european diet, that they brought their own invasive version as well.

'Invasive species' – hard to interpret the label as anything but "destroyer of worlds." How dare this plant, with no inherent right to our homeland, decide to land in our new home? Consuming the vast abundance of natural nutrition, while uninhibited by any sign of eco-volved competition, how did they even get through our predatory customs?

Well, we brought them here, no need to stowaway as a refugee down with the slaves, we bought them a first class ticket to the manhandling of america. What else are we going to do, you don't expect us to eat the soily sprouts of our new cornucopic home, do you? But that stuff is all so foreign to us, and you know how we feel about foreigners. Plus, we're probably not even evolved enough to digest the uncolonized caloric content of our common countrymen. We figured it out though, gorged ourselves on the edible landscape of our stolen territory, and without concern of some bigger badder bully pushing us around. We invaded paradise to pave a parking lot. We are the invasive species.

*******

A species who migrates to a new ecosystem and destroys the long standing relationships of habitual habitat, yep, definitely sounds like us. Oh, but that's different, we were just manifesting our destiny of global control. Getting pretty close too. It's completely natural for a highly adaptive species to journey to faraway lands and settle into a niche, as they evolve hand-in-hand with their new home. Perfectly natural. We broke no natural law by 'discovering' a land already known to millions of natives. We have as much universal right to explore our options as anybody else, but so do Kudzu and Japanese Beetles.

How dare we live this destructive way of life, and criticize our immigrant brothers over their success of living in a good way? Sure, they disrupt the balance of power in the new neighborhood, but they're still singing the song of Unci Maka. They instinctively follow the planetary protocols of evolving our living Mother Earth towards ultimate harmony. They may make some waves as they settle into their new digs, it'll take some getting used to for those that have lived on this block for their entire life, but they're friendly, they're a connected living tissue of our conscious ecosystem, and of course they play by the rules. They don't take more than they need, they understand the importance of sharing and the dangers of excess, because they believe in the garden.

Now, they do come in like a hurricane, devouring the lush landscape before the home team has a chance to eat, but they're constantly evolving with the cycles of global equilibrium. They will find their pocket in no time, won't skip a beat in the natural polyrhythms of our planet's complex time signature. They are going through a phase of plentiful food and scarce predators, but as long as the whole band is tuned-in, their extended solo will eventually end and they'll fall back into the groove of perpetual harmony.  
A species who can dominate any terrain as they eat their way to the top, untethered by concern of being eaten themselves, well, wouldn't a humanist have to agree that they're simply enacting the destiny of the evolutionarily superior? Plus, at some point, their path of proliferation will prove plentiful for the progress of the predator population. As they realize their niche, they create a surplus of new nutrition, an alternative energy source ripe for the picking, and the first species to make the biofuel conversion will enjoy the advantage of abundance.

It'll all work out in the long run. Always does. We're only experiencing a small blip in the timeline of life, this kind of stuff happens all the time, we're gonna be just fine. As long as everyone plays by the rules. The understanding that we do not own this planet, we are a part of it. A vital component to the soundtrack of life on Earth. Even all of the so-called invasives are humming the same melody, the entire organic orchestra is vibrating with love as they work their way towards the perfection of paradise. All of the invasives... except one.

*******

The human supremacy movement has no intention of sharing. Not only are we not willing to partake in the community biobuffet that provides for the extravagance of our entire family, we're going to systematically mow it down as we superimpose the fallacy of factory farms, and their symbiotic partnership with the fractures of a concrete jungle. In what twisted reality could 'progress' run parallel to the planetary devastation insisted on by president primate? We applaud the architecture of our broken way of life, crumbling around us as our intelligence appears more artificial than the poisons we pour over the graves of our victims. Our bothers and sisters. Those who we either bury directly as we level the playing field, or subsequently starve out when we fence them into the margins of the human experience. We insist on inefficiency as we infect our mother with the degenerative disease of agriculture, infesting her infrastructure with the destruction of a developing nation. We could easily adapt to our surroundings with our superior survival fitness, but here we are, struggling to get by, forced to work overtime to pay the price of terraforming our own planet.  
So what's the alternative to the seizures of agriculture? If we don't lay claim to the land and the water and the Sun and the lifeforce composing all that has ever been, how could we ever expect to succeed in a civilized competition that we hadn't rigged from the very beginning? Why, that would require some type of prolific food source, an abundance of organisms who thrive in our local environment, and preferably those with limited competitors of consumption. So yeah, maybe it's that simple, we can contain their population while sustaining our own. We can eat the invasive species.

Invasivore. I didn't even make that one up. Someone who looks at these lifeforms not as pests, but as a bounty of natural nutrition, as they curb the overgrowth of the underbrush that is clogging up the digestion of our mother's ecosystem. You can't logically deny their right of way without simultaneously condemning the invasion of our own species, so for those convinced that the doctrines of colonization are the supreme laws of the land, the only rational compromise, is to comprise a new food chain of events designed to fuel the ideals of edenistic abundance.

It's a no-brainer really (which is convenient since we seemed to have stopped using ours), not only are many of these imports way high in nutritional density, but it seems that by some cosmic coincidence, they actually appear to be providing organic remedies to the diseases plaguing the overgrowth of man. An invasive species cocktail sounds way more appealing than the chemical cocktail they give you before invasive surgery, especially once you realize that they actually taste really freaking good. But don't take my word for it, feel free to recreate the taste bud temptations of taco tuesday on the farm.

*******

As per my preferred menu preparations, the follow-up to pizza night could be no less impressive to the senses. Plus, we still had some cheese. I had never made tortillas, but had been looking to expand my culinary repertoire to include off-the-grid tacos, so Sara and I double teamed the fresh flour formation and it was a wrap. We caught a few Perch after sweat and stopped by the garden on the way back to the barn. Not enough time to sour any cream, however I knew that a splash of Lemon would do the trick. No citrus trees on the appalachian farm of course, so I just used a little bit of the Sorrel that Sara had harvested earlier in the day.

Rich in vitamins A and C, it improves eyesight and disproves cancer, plus its tart flavor lends itself as a nice lemonade substitute. Both native and invasive varieties exist in america, this one was born here, and bore a familiar similarity – it looks like a Shamrock with heart shaped leaves. And the leaves are sour, as well as the seed pod 'pickles' that I'd eaten as a kid. Just muddle some up, and soon we'd have a delicious cream sauce, not done yet though.

On the way up from the garden I stopped by the Peach Tree, oh, did I not mention that we had more Peach Trees than atlanta? JK, there were just a few, but as full as they were, it seemed like an orchard. Nectarines had been in for the first couple weeks of my stay, but once the Peaches were ripe, it was game over. So tasty. Peaches and cream. And honey. As many as I could eat, which was a lot with my pre-sweat daily diet of raw foods backed by crystal clear water, seven or eight juicy Peaches a day, at least. Kept me as regular as a Peach smoothie machine, luckily the compost bucket seat was just across the barnyard of Sorrel.

And if that peach smoothie blowout isn't enough for you, then I guess I could tell you about the time we blew up the Vitamix. It's my claim to fame among foodies who cherish the indestructible kitchen gadget, but apparently if your frozen peaches are deep enough under, so much so that it sounds like you're whipping up a gravel milkshake, you should just chill for a bit. We didn't, and next thing we knew, there was a baseball size hole blowing out the side and exploding all over the place. So funny, and tragic, but the beauty of the rustic kitchen is that the clean up was a simple hose down. No smoothie though.

The best Peaches were the ugly ones. The half rotted ground scores. If part of it was over-ripe, then the rest was going to be fantabulous. Another secret to finding the perfect specimen? Just follow the bugs. There was an electric fence around the tree, it was there to keep out the Cows who were kept in containment, and it kept away the Deer too.

I'd imagine it goes without saying how I felt about the fences, about the concept of owning the rights to this living being, and the inability to share the fruit of its labor with all circles of life. But no perimeter of electrocution could ward off the inspection of the insects. A cloud of poison was certainly not an option, especially from members of our own species who have experienced the death grip of a toxic fog first hand.

So as the tree reached its seasonal adulthood, the Japanese Beetles would crowd around the most mature of its offspring. A built-in ripeness detector of following another's insectual instincts. They could just feel it in their exoskeleton, a hardwiring to locate the peachiest cream of the crop, which was why we would harvest this year's take before they could. A close monitoring of the tree would reveal the perfect moment between maximum ripeness and minimal insectifestation, at least until I came up with a signature camp-style menu plan.

I grabbed a few juicy ones, the fruit not the bugs, and set off to make some Peach salsa for our Perch tacos. Before I got the stove warmed up, I swabbed the cast iron for any leftover crumbs from yesterday's creations. Not an original idea it turns out, there were already two Japanese Beetles who had stopped by last night to investigate the buttery smell of Garlic and Onions. They hadn't faired that well, the intense heat had instantly converted them into little crispies, so obviously I ate them. Tasty little nibbles of buttery goodness.

*******

Entomophagy - the practice of eating bugs. An appetite turn-off at first mention, but the yuck-to-yum ratio actually pans out to be pretty appealing. In fact, many cultures around the world consume what we consider to be pests, we of course tend to spray them down with our homicidal tendencies. Makes since on paper I guess, especially when you consider that the pockets of agriculture hold the deed to our home. We already know that they are against a wild abundant food supply, it's commonplace for them to wreck whatever functioning ecosystems remain, and now with the threat of a devastating invasion, they've managed to deepen our dependence on the agrimachine, as they impose the importance of using ecocide to save our artificially inflated diets. To be fair, the Beetles do wreak havoc on many of the plants that we enslave, but the human supremacist believes that we alone are in charge of destroying everything good in the world. So bug off.

Once you get over the indoctrinated disgust of ingesting the insiders of the natural world, it's not even the white savior complex of rescuing Princess Peach that makes you feel so good, many of these insects are jampacked with nutritional facts. Like our Japanese Beetles, forty percent of their body mass is protein, as much per gram as an ear of cornfed beef, and they're full of calcium, iron and zinc. Ants are good protein, and super high in iron too, especially the red ones, though the larvae are where it's at. Termites have heart healthy unsaturated fats. Caterpillars have all that other stuff plus a bunch of potassium. Grasshoppers are ridiculously high in nutritional value, you can make protein flour from Crickets, and perhaps that plague of Locust was simply an incredible God-given bounty.

An entire food group of supremely satisfying satiation, and here we are, convinced that extermination is the only answer. Not that I would pretend to be surprised, they did the same thing to the Buffalo, back when they were trying to conquer a population who could sustain themselves on an abundant feast of nutrient density. So of course it makes since to constantly constrict our concept of cuisine, as they continue to conquer our country.

The hormonal invasion of bioticized Cows isn't only detrimental to our own health, their pollution infects the veins of our precious mother and poisons all who attempt to make a home downstream. A single Cow produces waste as fast as twenty humans, and that's fast enough, but their combined efforts dump a whopping ten billion gallons of sludge on us every single day. Our overcrowded ranch run-off, at the minimum boosts the nitrogen and phosphorus levels to a record high, which removes the oxygen that aquatic life needs, as it inflates the toxic Algae takeover being experienced nationwide. But it also spreads stuff like E. Coli into the public water supply. Due to our impression that wild animals are gross and only those held in captivity are tender enough for our weakened stomachs, we've willingly perpetuated a system that dumps devastation into our planet, and assures gratuitous grossness to any patches of wilderness still hanging on. Self-fulfilling prophecy, I guess.

Beetles make up twenty percent of our planet's multi-celled organisms, and the environmental impact of the invasive varieties seems way less cancerous than that of our own population, especially if we start to curb their numbers with our unending appetites. If we look at them with love instead of hatred. Gratitude over disgust. We can eat from a wealth of abundance, if we can quit being so greedy and look forward to sharing our future. If there's even gonna be a future. For every steak you insist on ingesting today, there's a correlated lowering of your children's quality of life tomorrow. And they said eating bugs was disgusting.

*******

I never said that. I thought they were great. So did everybody else. I shook a bunch into a bucket, easiest hunt ever, and tossed them into a pan of sizzling Garlic butter. They were the most delicious nubbly bits that would make an excellent stand-alone bowl of movie munchies. Water Protectors don't stand alone though, we up the ante on the game of life, we gotta go over the top with this one. Fresh ground tortillas, fresh fish of the day, fresh garden veggies in a Green Tomato/Corn/Onion/Peach/Jalapeno salsa, freshly foraged wild greens, freshly soured Sorrel cream, and some day old cheese. Aged to perfection. And top it all off with the crispy crackle of my new favorite protein supplement. There aren't even words. The tastiest tacos I'd eaten since I left frybread country. The hesitaters were stunned when they were converted, I of course knew that a little butter goes a long way.

Well, isn't that a conundrum? Eat bugs to reduce the demand of the industrial cattle industry, but only if we can keep our maids-a-milking. No, I don't guess that quite works out. If I'm to discover a way of life in eco-harmony, then I probably have to learn how to cook without my beloved butterfingers. We already know that all of the imported oils spill destruction nearing the rate of petroleum, and now you're telling me that locally produced butterfat is a mere by-product of slave labor. Well, what are we supposed to do? How in the world can we make frybread?

It's not even the environmental implications of the cooking oil industry that are the grossest part, today's 'healthy' choice of rancid heat extraction and trans fatty hydrogenation, has neutralized any possible benefit found in carcinogenic vegetable based oils. Such as vitamin E, destroyed during high heat processing, a procedure that also breaks up unsaturated fats and releases free radicals into your system. Free radicals sport an unpaired electron in their outer orbit, which literally rips your body apart from the inside, all the way down to your DNA. It just so happens that vitamin E is a safeguard from free radicals, but we burned it out and replaced it with chemical preservatives known to cause cancer and brain damage.

So what's the alternative to our inferior aisles of artery cloggers? It's to forget the misconception that alternatives to traditional foods are automatically conducive of a healthy fried lifestyle. In fact, the only alternative they provide, is an additional revenue stream for the Corn and Soybean domination of our leaky guts. Back in the forties, science was for sale to the highest bidder, so while exxon was buying the denial of negative emissions, big agriculture bought the belief of an unsaturated market. Their research focused on hydrogenated trans fats, but was presented as if this also included all saturated fats.

Saturated fats are simply "saturated" with hydrogen, which makes them more stable than the products of our maniacal mechanization. Also means that the traditional use of naturally occurring animal fats hasn't broken its proven track record, it's just that the profit margins of margarine grew as america's arteries were the only ones facing restrictions. The healthy fat surrounding our heart is saturated, half of our cell membranes are made of the stuff, they help calcium to strengthen bones, protect the liver from intoxicants, and boost the effectiveness of our entire immune system. Maybe if we didn't blindly follow the profiteers of production, we could open our eyes to a way of life that actually promoted living.

Rendered Bear fat is the preferred oil of these particular hills, calorically condensed as well as a versatile tool, but it's a pretty drastic jump from hunting Beetles to Baloo. Duck and Goose fat is the best available in the modern marketplace, as seen in the "Duck fat Brussel Sprout" episode of The Standing Rock Show. There's also Chicken, beef and pork fat(lard), which are all of course products of captivation, and whose health benefits vary greatly depending on the diets of the hostages.

So yeah, I got no problem cooking with bacon grease, the problems arise from the cage-fed conditions that we subject our subjects to. I'd prefer to look towards the indigenous communities who understood that living in a good way, leads to a good life. If we can revitalize the planet into the cage-free Eden that she was meant to be, we'll experience extravagance at a rate unknown to civilized man. There are already wild Pigs and Chickens, proof that these escapees can re-assimilate into a natural way of life, plus the forests will be resaturated with a gamut of game. As logic would have it, these feral creatures would burn off more of their fatty buildup than those forced to endure a sedentary lifestyle, but that's precisely the point that quality overtakes quantity.

*******

So how did the pre-america Americans do it? Just like every other species that ever survived, they didn't live in excess. They utilized every part of their prey, most certainly the fatty bits, and they respected the God-given abundance of their all powerful Mother Earth. They honored the sacrifices made by their brothers, and understood the importance of moderation, patience, and humility. They weren't super-sizing Buffalo fat french fries everyday for lunch, their culture acted much more sparingly as they treated the animal like a delicacy. They held sacred the taking of another's life in order to propel the evolution of our living planet. The sphere of life. And the bonus point, was that it helped to maintain a healthy level of fat saturation.

They also knew that the feast of today, isn't necessarily going to be here tomorrow. Their diet changed with the seasons, as it does with a lot of other species, which coincidentally coincides with a diverse intake of a wide array of nutrition. Some days we eat Buffalo bites and Acorn bread, other days we enjoy Buffalo Berries and Acorn Squash. Our breathgiving mother is quite capable of providing an incredible menu, completely free of dietary restrictions. The uncolonized species are grateful for this gift of life, and get to live in a world made of food. We've elected, instead, to live with the greed of excess, chasing convenience at whatever the cost. We've built a civilization on the progress of instant gratification, and our impatience is destroying the planet faster than we can wait for pizza delivery.

But you said to "eat local", and the thirty minute pizza joint is right down the street, so minimal mileage added to my fuel cost footprints. Except maybe the vast landscapes that had to be converted to monocrops and porcine prison camps, in order to top our extra large human supreme taste buds. And then the fleet of gas tanks that it takes to get it all to our doorstep, or the endless expanse of the papers and plastics of packaging.

I have faith that we'll figure it out though. We have to. As we start to wake up and realize the layer of destruction required to enable our complacent lifestyle, we'll feel compelled to right the wrongs we committed as we lost our connection to the love song of the planet. We're good people, deep down, we don't want to hurt anybody, don't want to spread suffering to our planetmates, certainly don't want to perpetuate the oppression of humankind, it's just that we've been so conditioned to believe that this way of life is perfectly normal. Once we're fully aware of the impacts of importation, our connected consciousness will cringe at the thought of commoditizing another's lifeforce in the name of modern convenience. It will seem preposterous to mindlessly mail order out-of-season foods, pouring petrol into the planet simply because we can't exercise a bit of patience.

As we begin to give up the excessive extras that the marketing department convinced us we couldn't live without, we'll become enlightened to the extent that everything we could ever need is provided for us, provided that we rejoin the evolution of our local ecology. We wouldn't dream of eating some foreign product of slave labor, as we tend the garden around us, we'll develop personal relationships with our neighborhood's life cycles. We'll feel the connection. We'll feel the love. We'll rejoin the symbiotic sentience of Mother Earth, and we all know that nothing beats mama's cooking.

"Make safe our journey, through the storm"

*******

Ok, so that all sounds pretty fantastic, a perfectly seasoned buffet of fresh feral foods, but what about the seasons we spend in the freezer? Not everyone can live in a year round tropical paradise, are we to sustain ourselves on frozen steaks and snow cones? Now that we understand the evils of excess, how can we stock up for winter?

It's a tough one, the fine line between harvesting your family's fair share, and sharing the feast with the rest of your family. I look to those who have held onto their instincts of ancestral wisdom. The knowledge of how to live in a good way, which has been passed down through tradition and DNA since the beginning of life on Earth. We have much to learn from the intuitions of the animal nation, as well as the harmonious balance maintained by many indigenous cultures across the globe. At least until we wipe them both out.

So WWID, what would the indians do? I know first hand about the harsh north dakota winters experienced by the Lakota, and I know that they ate meat. The packed-in protein of the Buffalo was essential to their survival. It was sacred. But could it possibly have been their sole source of sustenance? It may have been the majority of their caloric content, but the fruit of the plains provided the medicinal nutrients to keep them on the hunt, and I know for a fact that they dried Choke Cherries into tasty little patties that carried them through the extended season of snow days. Or what about my more temperate appalachians, certainly reliant on game and frozen forest finds, but wouldn't they have collected caches of calories to save for snowy days too? How did they navigate the grey area between abundance and excess? We know that their language didn't even contain the word 'mine', so how did they determine the ethics of equity? Was it really as easy as finders keepers?

With their connection to the intricate tapestry woven by the complexity of life on Earth, they understood that we don't own the planet, and they knew the importance of sharing the wealth. They employed healthy harvesting techniques that ensured the proliferation of their community. There's plenty to go around, so they didn't feel the need to load up every last morsel. Doing so would have inhibited the growth of the very populations of protein that they would be hunting as the days grew shorter. And the more that we invite to dinner, the wider spread the success of our vegetative state. We can't collect 'em all, we have to leave enough behind so that the plant nation can continue down their perennial path of providing.

It's easy really, like with the Basil plant on the farm. I can grab enough leaves for dinner each night without worry of a bland tomorrow, but if I harvest every single leaf, the reduced photosynthesis of the power plant will have a hard time keeping up. So we always leave some. We pray to our plant sisters with an offering of Tobacco, a transfer of energy that keeps the cycle spinning. Many can still hear the song of the Earth, which provides guidance in maintaining balance, but even those who are disconnected will feel the benefits of believing. As you thank Unci Maka for everything that she provides, while focusing inwardly on patience, humility and understanding, you'll see that the rest of life is actually living, and you'll genuinely desire what is best for all.

It's like the group of monks that a water protector told me about, they tend to the local Banana orchard, but they've devised a simple way to give back to the community. They don't pick a single Banana from the trees that make up the perimeter of the crop circle. Those trees easiest to access from the outlying ecosystem, are left unpeeled and served up to Grandmother Earth. To all walks and flights and slithers of life. A sacred offering to Wakan Tanka, or God, who is in each and every one of those hungry Japanese Beetles.

Our intelligence may have made us the fittest to survive, but the only way it will last is if we start to think about the big picture. Like how I've been thinking about glutenless acorn flour, haven't gotten to make it yet, but I will. I've been studying the process, which includes a fairly extensive river rinsing to remove the high level of tannins from the nuts. Tannins occur in many wild foods, something we domesticated out as we pumped up our appetites, and then had to pump on pesticides to replace the naturally occurring predator deterrents of our imprisoned prey. We can use these same tannins to tan our Buffalo hides, which makes me wonder about another consideration, could there be a correlation between a colonized diet and the unfair skin of the white man's world?

*******

Now that's just nuts, which there seem to be plenty of, but how can I be sure to ensure that filling my flour jar doesn't empty another's? If indigenous insight isn't enough, perhaps we can look towards nature's world of native wisdom. I know that there is no fundamental fallacy with a policy of putting away, or squirreling away as it were, a quick glance outside shows me just how natural an accumulation of acorns is to the local ecosystem. They somehow know precisely how much is needed to persevere, and they don't take any more. No access to excess. That would just be rude to the rest of the rescue rangers.

And what about my little honeys? The Bee's knees? There were four or five Bee boxes down the hill, but only one was buzzing with the occupation of colonization. This was Sara's excuse for visiting the farm, and even though we found time for all those other activities, she still managed to do her homestead work of harvesting honey. Local honey, so freaking delicious, and a source of sweetness with actual health benefits, as opposed to the refined tastes of sugar addiction. But just how ethical could the extraction of this natural resource be?

Sure, we box them in, but they're free to come and go as they please, and their commute is quite crucial to the comb. The hives were fenced in too, but that was only to keep pooh Bears and nosey Cows out of their business. The defender of domestication has a little ammo, and it's hard to argue with the propagation of the pollination population. Certainly we are responsible for their receding beeline, so doesn't that mean that we are responsible for fixing it?

They're a keystone species, like humans used to be, and an intricate ecology is woven wherever they decide to set up shop. They are conduits of communication, they spread the vibrational web of our Earth song, and make audible the undertones of our mother's buzz. They are so tuned-in to the frequency spectrum, that a simple snap of the fingers will send a shockwave that signals their cue to leave you alone. And after I was a few weeks into my own attuning, I sent a double snap to a pesky pollenator, and I kid you not, she fell straight to the ground.

This network of nueral vibration is a real thing, it composes the building blocks of all the real things, and vibrations naturally flow through curves, not angles. Our entire civilization is built upon the practice of caging our existence into the compartments of containment. Cubicles within boxes within skyscrapers within city blocks, and somehow we find ourselves disconnected from anything even resembling harmony. And here we are, floating our mess downstream, as we encase the queen into this gridlocked prison of frequency disruption. The real kicker though, is that they're not even native, we introduced them to kickstart the agricultural revolution of america.

But even still, does that rationalize us raiding their reserves? Well, the beekeeper will tell you that they produce more than they could ever need. Now, that doesn't sound right. Are you telling me that this law abiding citizen of natural order, is living it up in a lifestyle of excess? Even with their dwindling sense of direction, could this species possibly be lost to the temptations of greed? If I'm reading into my six-legged sister's advice column, how can I take away anything but a quart of their sticky surplus? Have the habits of the hive mind just flipped the poles on my moral compass? Short answer – that's about as likely as me ever providing a short answer. Obviously I prefer a pallet of intricate sentencery, like the life sentence of droning away in service to the king of queens.

On one of my early days at the farm, I helped Ben smoke up the buzzing Bees as he added a story to the high rise condos. The last compartment that he'd added was almost full, so we had to make room for more inventory. Or what? Well, if they filled the entire warehouse, then their biological clock would alert them that they had enough supply to support the crew. They'd stop making honey. They'd migrate, or hibernate, or just spend more time chilling with their family, but we extend their sentence with another cellblock to fill. The entire ecology of the farm benefits from their presents, so of course we want them here, and it's totally natural for an animal to eat another animal's food products. Plus, in the wild, I bet the honey raids tear up their homes, so doesn't it make sense to offer them the protection of slavery?

But beekeeping is an ancient practice, as old as the written language, agriculture, civilization, the patriarchy, and the pyramid scheming slave masters. Honey was used to trade as currency, and Bees backed the flipside of the earliest coinage. To give up on honey, would be to give up on money, and all the good stuff that came with our inherited privilege. I do love it though, especially this batch, so I hope we can work something out, but I'm not quite ready to call this version symbiosis.

*******

The Ants were though. It was a daily game of hide and seek with the honey jar. Even with the lid on tight, they'd somehow find a way in, but it took them a couple days to find it. There were Ants all over the kitchen, in a few spots at least, and they had domain over the compost bucket. No way we're gonna kill them, we're buds, plus we know that they're just harvesting their fair share. We should be happy to break bread with our brothers, I'm sure their contributions to the neighborhood have more than paid for them to bus our table.

Everyday before we ate, we made a spirit plate with the choicest nuggets of each dish, we prayed and thanked Unci Maka for all that she provides, and then placed the offering on a stump in the yard. Offered it to the spirits, our ancestors, seven generations back and seven generations forward, Tunkasila, the Sun, the Moon, the stars, and most importantly our mother. We believe that the spirits are hungry and will be better able to guide us if we share the abundance, our ancestors are the world around us, and they enjoy it when we honor their contributions of life, but we don't get upset if Ants line up at the taco truck, we know that they're just taking the plate back to mom.

The Ants are God. And Mother Earth. The Ants are made of the universal energy of the Sun, as it powers this incubator that we are not confined to, but rather, we are a part of. We are not foreigners to natural wonder, we are but beings of small perspective inside the inner workings of our all powerful planet. And she's sick. We became self-aware, then self-absorbed, and our egos convinced us that we didn't have to work for mom anymore, we're the new head of household. She got sicker all around us, and so did we, but instead of trying to reconnect and ask her for advice, we just locked ourselves away in the angular cells of our concrete tumors.

*******

Plants are connected to our planet, very obviously, vital organs to the cycles of a living Earth. When I speak to them, I feel as though I am speaking to the Earth herself, a direct vibratory connection between my open heart and the open arms of my creator. And the animals that live among them, they feel it too. They are all listening to our mother's lullaby, and their direct physical connection to her, keeps them tuned-in to the understanding that we are all one. We are all part of our mother. A tiny tiny tiny little speck of a fraction of a part of a piece of her, yet so incredibly capable of making great changes to her physiology, which directly affects our own. But here we are, turning her into a construction dumpster.

It makes me sick. All the concrete. I don't mean the moral dilemmas of sidewalk chalk, I'm talking about the vibration-blocking slabs that make up the foundations of modern civilization. All you gotta do is sleep on an Earthen tipi floor for a while, and you start to hum her melody. Dreams become more vivid, sleep becomes more restful, the circular shape is conducive of inducing a strong resonance with the energy of the planet. I know that this connection is real, I've felt it, and I've felt it fade away upon re-entry to our boxed-in existence of concrete and squares. It's really just science. It's all stuff I understand pretty well through my past life of turning knobs.

Vibrations. Sounds. Songs. Waves. Energy. Universal communications that are most certainly inhibited by twelve inches of subterranean sound barrier, and then diffused as they bounce around in the corners of our acoustical nightmares. We have concrete knowledge of waveform behavior, yet our behavior has all but removed us from the radio frequency of home base. Unless you've felt this connection flow through you, then you're probably laughing at such a preposterous idea as a living planet that communicates with the cells of her heavenly body. I get it. Especially after countless generations stacked on the fractured foundation of a world ruled by man, and the accompanying ridicule of the unevolved heathens who worship all of life as one. An indoctrinated disgust of those who draw power directly from the source, which somehow justifies the injustice required to electrify the fences of oppression.

But you don't have to make the leap to tipi living in order to jumpstart the flow of Unci Maka's energy inside you, all you really have to do is dig your toes into the sand and you'll begin to feel grounded. Literally grounded. Electrically grounded. Connecting your skin to the skin of the Earth, allows the flow of the negative ions she emits, to flow through you. It makes your entire being function on a higher level, your mind, body, and spirit, it scientifically connects you to the energy field of the Earth. It's also way healthier for our broken backs, a barefoot approach centered on the balls of our feet, but the capitalization of putting rubber to the asphalt, enabled nike to change our stance on the issue. Also enabled the posturing of western medicine, as they play the savior, by inventing psuedo-cures to problems that we created in the first place.

But we are the conductors. We are in charge of letting this energy flow within. Through physical contact with our environment, coupled with the pathways of an open heart, we can realign our vibrations to a healthy and harmonious way of life. I talk to the trees. I share my adoration and love. I tell them about our global movement of recovery. I promise to look out for them as I thank them for everything they do for us.

I don't hear voices of response, though I do know many who have, what I feel is an overwhelming sense of warmth and love flow through my body. I perceive it as a direct connection of energy with whichever tree I'm conversing with, an acceptance of my love and a reflection of it. Who knows though? Maybe I just feel good inside because I'm pouring out love as I humble myself to another. But perhaps it's something more, like a rudimentary connection to the song of the planet. Unable to translate the lyrics, but the emotional intent of the chord chart has no language barriers. This is undeniably a love song. As much as I want to deepen my connection with our mother, to a point of true understanding, I already feel enough to know that I must dedicate my life's energy to restoring hers.

Just like all the cells in your humanly body, dedicated completely to maintaining a healthy lifestyle, we are the living components of our celestial body. We are Earth. Every species of life is an organ of our mother, we are quite literally organisms. Each organic specimen of each specific species, is one cell of many, that make up the whole of that particular bodily function. That flock of Seagulls may have about as much clue of their purpose in life as their kidneys do, but they all play their part in creating a functioning infrastructure for their host. They don't have to try to grasp the grand plan, they just follow their genetic code, and get firmware updates through a healthy connection to their local energy grid.

Obviously we're the skin, the largest organ that covers the entirety of the planet, riddled with festering pockets of oily residues, but for the sake of a future dig at alcohol, let's assume the role of the libatious liver. The whole of humankind is that liver, tasked with helping our creator to create the most comfortable living situation for the entirety of our being. You're just a cell of the liver of the planet. An independent piece of a system that our mother's health is dependent on. Those liver cells don't need to translate brainwaves in order to understand that the purpose of their existence is to better the world around them. They instinctively want to work towards the greater good, which in turn, betters their own living situation. Acting seemingly autonomous, yet in choreographed harmony with the intricate design of the fabric of life.

If a few liver cells get sick as they become disconnected, no big deal, the organ still functions and life goes on. But if the sickness overtakes the collective, then the destructions of this one species of cell will begin to deteriorate the quality of life for all. The body will break down.

And what if the liver were to gain sentience? What if its cells began to believe in their own superiority, as they lost their grip on the connective tissues of their community? They would assume that their survival was of paramount importance, even if that meant suppressing other bodily functions, or depressing the function of the body as a whole. They would commandeer excessive energy, which would propel their own population, while putting a chokehold on every other organist at play.

And God forbid they start learning how to harvest the lifeforce of their neighbors, devouring healthy cells of functioning systems while poisoning all passersby, and all in pursuit of conquering the whole shebang. Spreading systematic devastation as they take control, complete organ failure. You'd think they would sense the ramifications of their hostile takeover, living in a broken being of dysfunctional families, but they might just use their surplus of resources to build a city of scar tissue, only furthering their disconnection from 'the one.'

The same 'one' that they're attempting to overthrow. A cancerous overpopulation of parasitic cells, intent on operating the mainframe of a fully conscious being far beyond their grasp of understanding. Like a smidge of bacteria born yesterday, experiencing only a sliver of a fraction of a portion of a ten-thousand day timeline, does seem a tad unlikely that the dimensions of their capacities could possibly conceive of any underlying sentience. And their body of work would be deathly ill. Something drastic would have to occur to rebirth equilibrium among the internal affairs. The suppressed members of the immune system, those who stand for the health of their creator above all else, will stand up and revolt against the widespread destruction of this toxic superiority complex. They have to, before the rest of life is turned into livermush.

Our planet is sick. We are responsible. She will recover. Will we?

We must resume our role of caretakers, not just takers. We're the next step of planetary evolution, an almost infinite utility belt of intelligent designs. On paper, it was a good idea, evolve a species with the brains and heart and a thumb to be able to create global superpowers. They'll still be a part of the same supreme being, so of course they'll integrate with the others, and certainly they'll be accessible through the same musical notation.

And we were. For a long time. Human beings were just as connected as anyone else. Singing their part in the song of the planet. Living by the drum, the heartbeat of the Earth. Keepers of the fire and water. The rhythms of life perfectly timed with the cycles of our revolution. Not bound by the restrictions of a 9/5 time signature (one that shifts a measure halfway through each verse), their biological clocks were synced up to that of their home. As was every other species. They lived by indian time, and without the divisions of hard labor, their internal metronome kept them aligned with the cycles of life. Sun cycles. Moon cycles. Water cycles. Motorcycles.

No watching the clock at a dead end factory job, they were on the Sun's schedule, which by coincidence, offered them an abundant source of the vitamin D wavelength. No marking a colonized calendar until rent was due, they looked forward to the solstice instead, and their bodies were naturally tuned to the lunar month, some of us still are. Even our year is off by six hours. Trying to cram a square grid onto a dynamic flow of circular motion, may make it easier to get employees to work on time, but it will breed a society detached from reality.

Or you live in a round tipi, a non-destructive domicile of nomadic nightlife, with free daily downloads of our mama's favorite tunes and a complimentary sunrise wakeup call. As you reconnect with the Earth, your life cycles will begin to sync up to hers, that part's for real. It's science. The natural rhythms of your body adjust themselves to fit into the groove. Cycles within cycles within cycles, all stacked into a precisely portioned harmonic series.

*******

Let's refresh our understanding of sound logic. With an audio waveform, we can visualize the vibrations that are shaking our eardrums. Every time that the wave travels up, and then down, and returns to the center line, it has completed one cycle. I picture this as a parabolic squiggle on an obsolete high school graphing calculator, but it could be seen as the profile view of a spiral, a pattern of circular motion combined with forward trajectory. Each revolution a cycle, and almost reminiscent of a closed loop, but not quite.

Or we could sketch the reverberation of a guitar string. When you pluck it, it travels back and forth, and appears to be in both places at once. Each cycle looks like a football, connected on either end, and simultaneously at both extremes in the midpoint. So it looks like a human eye. Now let's keep pretending that we're talking about music for a bit.

So in music, there's a harmonic series of notes that harmonize with each other. In science, the cycles just line up. Strum the bottom E-string and imagine the tone of its spiral, we have to zoom in to see its football stats because this note beats with 82.4 cycles per second, or htz. Next, play the E an octave higher, exactly 164.8 cycles per second. So two cycles of our new note, or two footballs end to end, fit perfectly inside a single cycle of our original tone. The next note of the series produces three nesting dolls of vibration, and so on. Each note's cycle set beginning at precisely the same point, and reaching completion in unison, at the far edge of our original E's football. This image is commonplace to the audio professional, but even with a tin ear, one can understand the synchronistic relationships of complimentary vibes. If just a single note is out of tune, the entire orchestra will seem to be malfunctioning.

We are the orchestra. All of life on our planet. Every species humming their part, composing the song of Eden, layer after layer of harmonious life cycles, all tuned to the root note of our conductor. The Earth has its own resonant frequency. Vibration. Energy. I'm not talking about some hippie crystal power, I'm talking about science. The planet is vibrating, she's singing to us, it's just hard to hear over the incessant white noise of the disconnected human racetrack.

It's 7.83 htz. Mom's hum. Science calls it the Schumann resonance, the literal sound wave being emitted from our revolving home. Our living planet's frequency, or the rate that it pushes energy out into the universe as it vibrates through space, is the same energy that it uses to push its own evolution. Our evolution. The fundamental building block, the concrete foundation, of every living vibrational being, ever. (On Earth at least.) Just being within earshot, out in nature, you start to feel the calming effect of recalibrating your physical self. So, on the flipside, it only makes sense that a way of life locked away in a concrete cubicle, would be detrimental to the rising anxiety levels of a high-rise lifestyle.

*******

And what about the delusion of time? 7.83 cycles per second? If this was such an integral vibration, don't you think it would be in harmony with our time clock? If it were exactly one cycle per second, then I might start to come around.

Our constructs of time, are also an easy to grasp concept of cyclical nesting. There's sixty of this unit we call a second, in every minute. Sixty tiny football cycles embedded into each larger minute cycle. Zoom out and see sixty minute cycles fill each hour. Twenty-four hours in a day, just enough time for a revolution of our planet. Arbitrary amount of days in a month. Twelve months in a year – a single trip around the Sun. Of course years into decades, into centuries, into millennia, and I don't see what this has to do with anything. Sure, all of the cycles line up at the end of each larger cycle, it would certainly corrupt the space time continuum if one species of the minutest seconds began decelerating their revolution, but it all fits together nice and neat, because we designed it that way. We took our fluid movement through space, the natural ebb and flow of an orbital timeline, and dissected its digits until it fit neatly into the claustrophobic grid of your corporate timesheet.

A day, that's easy, one complete spin on the Earth's axis. Although it seems that those who live by the sun, experience a 'day' as an ever-changing amount of time, a fluid schedule as the stars align to energize us with a golden shower. Then we chopped it all up at random, twenty-four segments, that sounds good, then split those into sixty, and then those into sixty, and it must be good because the math all seems to work out. Like, how to milk the most out of a minimum wage workforce. Now we can quantize and commodify the human vibration, regardless of our spiraling orbit and its variable sunlight.

We invented time, it's not our fault if the Sun didn't want to play along, or the Moon for that matter. We separated the days into groups of varying lengths, or months, supposedly based on the lunar cycle, but that's a twenty-eight day thing and there are thirteen of them in a year. Coincidentally, a woman's monthly cycle is linked with the natural cycle of the Moon, not the contrived grid of a patriarchal calendar.

A natural system of harmonious spirals, will no doubt see cycles beginning and ending at synchronistic points. Instead, our ridiculous twelve page flipbook, the one that squares off against the complexities of our celestial spiral, it gets to the end of a trip around the sun and there's a quarter of a day just sitting there. There's screws leftover boss. No biggie that this grid we're aligning our way of life with is out of sync with the entire universe, we'll just tack on an extra day every few years and call it good.

There is a natural order of things. Things happen in cycles. Bodily cycles. Planetary cycles. Celestial cycles. Cycles within cycles within cycles. They are all connected. It's what the entire study of astrology is founded on. Here's our Sun, spiraling around the black hole at the center of our galaxy, eventually completing an entire revolution, and only taking 250 million years to do it. Our planet is spiraling around that Sun, even as the Sun is in it's own spirographic orbit. The graphical spiral of planets chasing the Sun, is quite obviously a wave of sound as we sing our way through space.

The Earth spins to create a shorter cycle, and the Moon moves our double-helixed lifeline as it spirals out of control, just a few inches every year though. The consciousness of our planet experiences the waves of the Sun and Moon cycles, the days and nights, and the changing seasons. But the eyes on the ground see what's really going on. No foreman calling the shots, though everyone seems to be right on schedule. Flowers bloom and leaves fall, thousand mile migrations and winter long slumbers, a never-ending cycle of life perfectly attuned to not only our mother's heartbeat, but to the vibration of the even larger composition that guides her journey.

An incredible symphony of interlocking spirals at every level. Harmonious space waves of general relativity. And then we came along to butcher it, box it up, and bring the human genome to market. You can now sell your lifeforce by the hour, so that you can pay rent by the month, but better hurry up, without your built-in connection to the customer service hotline of the universe, you're bound to get a little shaken up. We literally took the magnificence of our solar system, shoved it into neat little boxes that it obviously didn't fit into, cut pieces and moved them around the board, and then based an entire civilization on this fractured timeline. No wonder we did the same to ourselves; locked away in concrete caskets and wondering why we have seasonal depression.

The colonized calendar was pretty close, I guess, sometimes at least, and if the scale of the planets begged to differ, well, we all know the colonizer's policy on anything natural. Days too short to pay the bills? Here's a gallon of midnight oil, feel free to toil away as your debt accrues the interest of the powers that be. And all the while, our mother whistles while we work. Unencumbered by the empire's data, but with every failure of man, our justification of righteousness muffles her voice, one bitcoin at a time.

Still she sings. All of the natural world is singing along. Literal vibrations of sound, both in and out of the humanly audible spectrum. The lowest thing that we can hear is 20htz, sub bass, twenty cycles per second, so we're not going to be able to directly interpret our home frequency of 7.83htz. Humans can still feel lower vibrations, and just as with music, we can intuit the root note based on the harmonic content of the rest of the song. I might not hear her tone, but I know how she feels.

I can take steps to let my body re-acclimate to her fundamental resonance. I don't have to perceive her sounds to understand physics, if I let my weak vibrational field become enveloped by the all encompassing nature of hers, I will begin to operate in synchronization with her cycles. My heart (circulatory cycle) and lungs (respiratory cycle) will begin to function far more efficiently. Sleep cycles, menstrual cycles and digestive cycles, why even the dumb old liver locks into place. Even if our dualistic consciousness has disconnected us from the song, our bodily organs are still capable of internal intuition.

In fact, this 7.83htz vibration is directly connected to the frequencies of our brainwaves, as well as the pea brains of all those dumb little animals out there surviving in the wild. We are all connected. We are all related. And just wait til I tell you about the vibration's recent fluctuations of frequency – it seems that it's rising up. The planet is evolving. We are evolving. At least all those directly connected to this uplifting shift of planetary consciousness, a much more attractive fate than an under-evolved species clinging onto a destructive way of life, but to each their own.

"When the light's returning, even though this is the darkest hour"

*******

I was definitely feeling connected. Eating and drinking super clean, but I still spent many hours each day in the concrete kitchen, tethered to the unnatural vibration of the laptop. Hardly wore shoes, got plenty of Sun, Saged and prayed every morning at least, but what really had me there, was the constant ritual at the inipi. A daily multivitamin of connection. A guaranteed four hour window into the heart of Unci Maka. And into my own heart.

We never let the fire go out. A nice sized stump would be enough to keep her smoldering, until we arrived the next day to breathe her back to life. A pinch of Tobacco as we shared whatever was on our heart with the flame. No matter what anyone's workday had entailed, this was their chance to break free from the cages of colonization. A pristine lakeside landscape, completely uncluttered by convenience. You had no choice but to hear the music around you, and we were there to combine our voices, one unified prayer vibration, blasting out of the lodge as we contribute our harmony to the great cosmic jam. We purify ourselves in the inipi, the darkened hot womb of Unci Maka, the caves of creation, and we emerge reborn and humbled. Reminded that we are not our ego, but a conduit of universal energy, and at our strongest when we act as one.

Benjamin always poured, but the rest of us would take turns pulling stones, today was my day. First I'd grab a shovelful of coals and use Cedar to smudge myself, the altar, the drum, and the chanupa. After the pipe filling song, I'd use a pitchfork to dig out the glowing rocks, heavy rocks, and carried each to the inipi door. Every once in a while, there would be a rainstorm rolling through just as we were ready to head in.

With a way of life disconnected from weather.com, surrounded by natural cycles and the understanding that we won't understand them, knowing that our prayers are as capable of affecting the world around us as they are the clouds in our own hearts, well, it only made sense to assume that the onset of downpour was our sign to begin. No joke, several times the bottom dropped out right as we went in, super soaker, and then it let up as quickly as it had surfaced, during the last song of the fourth door.

The rain brings great cleansing. It brings healing. Washes away suffering as it brings new life. We pray for the rain. Wopila tanka. The key to the Rain Dance is to feel the rain, to believe in your heart that it is already raining, a manifestation of imagination. And then there's that time I summoned the Thunder Beings.

The Wakinyan Oyate, the Thunder Nation, or Thunder People, they bring both destructive and constructive energy. If you see a Thunderbird in your dream, a medicine man may tap you to become a Heyoka, an important ceremonial role in the tribe, one who does things backwards but achieves the same results. They balance the flows of energy, the yin to the rest of the tribe's yang.

I was singing a heyoka Thunder Being song on the edge of the dock one day, no clouds above, just a few way down the valley from us. I started singing, lightening started hitting way off in the distance, I kept going, the storm kept coming. It was creeping up, Ben made me stop, and by the time we shut the door, it was right on top of us. Sure, there was already a storm, and it was probably coming right up the valley, regardless of our intentions, but that didn't make the lodge any less intense. Especially considering that Benjamin's been hit by lightening three times, somewhat of an electromagnet, and he's sitting across from you in a fiery inferno. A grandma would later tell me, "That Benjamin, he sure is a power pack." Sure is.

*******

Ben had been a Sun Dancer for over twenty years, cultivating a direct connection of spiritual nourishment, but he was also on a path of Vipassna meditation, the way of the Buddha. He worked it into his daily routine, but also participated in extended group meditation, ten day sits. A week and a half of getting inside his head, or out of it. He focuses on his breath, the actual point where spirit enters and exits his body, less about conforming to the 'right way,' and more about observing and being aware of its quality. The attention to detail of this fundamental essence of life, of the revitalizing flow of universal energy within, with a clear intent of experiencing every breath, you are left no choice but to be fully invested in the now. And then all you have to do is not think about anything else.

Simple, right? Except that we all have baggage, even if we've stowed it away in the long term compartment. Things come up, whether you like it or not, a bit like truly praying from a selfless heart. You may be lost in thought about some mundane task on the farm, then you catch yourself, and you acknowledge the thought as you return your focus to your breath. But once you get with the low flow of radio silence, that's when the heavy stuff starts to hit you.

I haven't gotten there with meditation yet, but I think I've experienced the same with prayer, and psychedelics, and I believe it to be the fundamental mechanics of going on the hill, hembleciya, vision quest. Sounds scary. And uncomfortable. Facing deep regrets about the pain you've caused. Being honest with your heart as you look past the rationalizations of your ego. Things may come up that you had no idea were still weighing on you, it's only scary if you fight it, if you're unwilling to tear down walls, if you insist on denying the truth within. This is why you're here. In this space. Not some new age astral journey, at least not until you unload the cargo hold. You're here to work on yourself, to unpack issues that are holding back the inner light of your being

Your selfless self. Unlocking the chains of an ego-driven road trip, as you admit to yourself the vibrational hold you've allowed it to maintain, while dissolving the illusions of justification that attempt to nullify the negative energy you've created in the world. In another's life. I may not actively carry guilt for something from my past, a logical retelling of events may reveal that my actions and words were called for, but if I've caused pain or sadness to my brother or sister – a reflection of me, crafted by the same light – then just how high and mighty could I possibly be in the situation?

I know now the power of love, the strength of the dominant vibration of the universe, and I've seen first hand it's ability to spread and heal and inspire. So how honest could I be without acknowledging that any negative energy I've allowed to occur in my wake, has the potential to spread, and damage the vibrations of those I love, and most certainly myself. You have to be aware of this energy before you can begin to convert it into the overpowering vibration of love. Self love. Unconditional love.

You don't heal by convincing your brain that you were right all along, you find forgiveness by humbling your heart and seeking genuine compassion. Understand that you are God, and they are God, and we are all part of the same, which means that you are also experiencing the light of life through their perspective at the same time. Our ego keeps us separated from the collective journey, which allows us to experience a supremely diverse web of life, but it also makes it possible to forget why we are here. Love.

I don't even have to dig into my past, I'm causing pain right now. To the ones I love the most. To the ones who love me unconditionally. As I lock myself away to write about healing, I'm spreading hurt among my family. I've disconnected from society, which is the only world they know. I've gone off the deep end. I used to be the life of the party, now I'm the name you don't mention because it dampens the celebration. I can't go back. I can visit, but there's no way I can reenter the matrix.

And my self-driven rationalizations have me convinced that I'm right. That I'm doing what I must. That standing up for my planet is the most important thing I could be doing – at all costs. Even if that cost is a confused family in constant worry, while I've disappeared into the dangers of a domestic warzone. Confused... and angry. Choosing a life of adventure over our lifelong relationships, leaving them to explain the impossible, "Where's Uncle Deeg?" How can I feel ok about my path, when I know my mom cries for me in her sleep?

But I also know that I can't. I woke up, which gave me the ability to see the destruction all around me, and also the gift of anxiety. I physically can't be amidst the chaos of ignorance, this world of contriviality, without risking the chance of an episode. And I certainly can't be around more than a few consumers without freaking the eff out. It's PTSD, but I feel bad calling it that when I know how deeply it has affected others, so I just label it anxiety. I don't feel it at the farm, or at other camps, here I'm connected, and surrounded by kindred spirits. I haven't disappeared from the face of the Earth, I've disappeared to it.

But that first step into civilization and I feel it, a simultaneous throttle on my connection to the planet, and the culture shock of reentering a world of disconnectedness. And it just builds. How can I expect anyone to understand, when I can't even talk about it without getting upset? They want to understand. They want me to be safe and happy and for me to do what feels right, but they also want me in their life. They want me to feel the love that should be keeping me around, even through the bars of the cage. A prison they can't even see, and even if they do, a content family life can overpower the urge to try to escape it. But all I can do is cynically preach revolution, and those that aren't ready to hear it, they're just not gonna understand.

*******

I'd never experienced anxiety, or a panic attack, until I did. During a brief visit to asheville before heading to the farm, it hit me. I'd been surviving the rural carolina life, surrounded by those that didn't get it and relying on prayer to get me through. Then, on my first trip to A-Town, I saw the endless amounts of energy consumed with alcohol fueled denial. A progressive community lost in the illusions of progress. I saw who I was last year. Then I had a moment.

I bumped into a friend, and after a second of them processing my surprise guest appearance, I felt this incredible wave of gratitude pass through them. He had visited camp with his band, outspoken supporters of the movement, and he held sacred the sacrifices of the water protectors. He scooped me up in a big hug, genuinely grateful for my commitment to the cause, and reaffirmed my drastic decision to adopt a new way of life. It was the first time that I'd crossed paths with someone who truly backed me up, who agreed that this was important work, and vital to our continued existence on this planet. I left this brief interaction and immediately began tearing up as waves of emotion began rolling over me. I had to find a seat in the bushes and ride it out. Conveniently, I was with a friend who has a history of anxiety, so they understood without understanding, and knew how to comfort while giving the space to let it pass.

It was a panic attack fraught with positive emotions. A corroboration that I wasn't going crazy, and that my new life's work wasn't in vain. Tangible evidence that people are waking up. That we're going to do this. After a barrage of naysaying pundits belittling the naive dream of a better world, this moment overwhelmed me with the relief of being reminded of what I already knew. We will be victorious. We're gonna win this thing. No doubt in my mind. Or heart. It's hard to hang on to faith, when all you hear are the gears turning in the mindless mainframe of mayhem, but as we continue along this path of inspiring, the waking up of our bothers will only inspire us further.

It's tough to be where I'm at right now, in this headspace of realizations and lessons of self-discovery, and not get frustrated by those that aren't there yet. I want others to learn from my mistakes, and my successes, but I also know that I can't tell someone how to feel. I have to remember the incredible chain of events that even led me to be called to Standing Rock, a far cry from the systematic farming of my family. And then we experienced the unspeakable, which explains why it took me so many words to try to describe it, and through this multifaceted journey of intense introspection, we all evolved.

We're at the front of this thing. We are the leaders of a global awakening, but we have to understand that we are each on our own path. After knowing all that I've been through, and to be just now getting to this place of awareness, it seems ridiculous to think that everyone else can catch up just because I say so. Patience. They will get here eventually, we all will, and I happen to know that the waking up process is accelerating exponentially. I'm a part of it. I've already inspired others to inspire, and as the web of change spreads out like the energy of the Wakinyan, we'll reach the tipping point where love will topple the walls of fear.

We'll never stop growing though. Learning. Discovering. Evolving. As our brothers and sisters embark on the inward journey that will eventually bring them to somewhere near where we're at, with our current understanding of the universe and connection to it through our Mother Earth, we'll also be continuing down this infinite road to truth. Each understanding only opens a door to a new level of not understanding, and every time I think I have it all figured out, I realize that I'm just getting started. "The journey to the spirit world is a long one my friend." So even after the conception of a conscious collective, we're still gonna be looking back from a higher perspective, and yearning to bring everyone else with us.

So I can't get frustrated. But I will. So I just have to remind myself how grateful I am to get to be one of the lucky ones, and the honor I feel to be able to carry this responsibility. It's no burden, it's a blessing, and the caveat is that as my guides continue to pull me through the darkness, I must exercise patience as I help my family to their own epiphanies. My human family. The two-legged nation. We are all related.

But even that internal monologue of self-motivation, isn't enough to ease the pain of knowing the pain I've caused along the way. So I pray. I honestly approach the inner demons that constrict my transformation. I don't run away from the truth of who I am, I run towards it. I face myself head on and commit to transmuting this internal grief into outward love. And inward love. Love and compassion for your own healing, is the first step to sharing it with others. I know that the more I break down the constructs of my ego, the more creative power I have to build a better world.

It's hard work though. Certainly enticing to compartmentalize and move on. But after experiencing a transformation amid my quest for humility, I know that it is so worth it. Bring it on. I'm grateful for the continuous humbling of the lodge, keeping my heart open while I strive to walk in prayer. I anticipate my turn on the hill, knowing that it will be powerful, and painful, so the least I can do for myself is get a head start on healing. And as for meditation, eh, that's just some california hippie mumbo jumbo.

*******

Benjamin had been connected through the Sun Dance way for a long time, the same Red Road that I'm just starting my journey along, and then he got into meditation. He could feel his connection to the same source, a new pathway to the understanding of oneness, just another way to build that same fire. Then, as he independently exercised his spiritual muscles, the two separate neural highways merged. He could now tap into both at the same time. The routes of enlightenment had crossed paths, which only makes sense, once you realize that they're all going to the same place anyway.

This greatly deepened my understanding of the stairway to heaven. I already knew that it doesn't matter how you pray, as long as it's from the heart. All pathways are valid, got it. I only knew one way, the only one that ever felt right, the only path that ever resonated with me, the Sun Dance way of life. This is how I pray. This is how I live. It has provided me great gifts of wisdom, so obviously this is the road for me. I knew that all ways could lead me there if I opened myself to them, but I also assumed that I couldn't transfer credits, figured I had to pick a major and stick with it. Now I can see that the complex roadmap to the universe, is as webbed and infinite as the contagious spread of universal love. I can feel the connection that I do, yet still open my heart to an alternative route, which just makes my GPS that much more effective as I face the unknowns ahead.

Makes me wonder if one could experience the entire atlas, the ultimate scenic route down the path of self-discovery. Also makes me think about how incredible a world full of acceptance would be. An understanding of differences and a genuine desire to understand them, because as you continue your own exploration, every experience only deepens your own connection to source. Sounds much more beautiful than a world full of fear and persecution and racism and close-minded hatred of anything outside of america's comfort zone.

*******

I honestly couldn't imagine a place more comfortable. Laying on the dock, tingling from the vibrations of connection, fresh out of the oven and impurities washed away by our precious mni wiconi. It was something else. You got out-there for sure. And the close bond of our brotherhood made it all the more powerful, probably why the Beaver was trying to join the gang.

The small six-person lodge was surrounded by wildlife. If the farm was man's attempt to create Eden, this habitat was God's success. We saw Deer every day. After a few weeks of ceremony, they'd be waiting for us when we came out, chilling in the field as they checked out our vibes. There might be a Mouse taking refuge in the centrally heated stone pit of yesterday's lodge, and one time a rescued Turtle walked in the front door and vanished. I went in looking, pretty immediately, but I guess he left through the back and took off running, unless...

Sometimes there'd be an Eagle, circling the lodge's skyward push of positive energy, reminding us to persevere as we walk in a good way. Or maybe just picking up some lunch from the lakeside diner. But for real though, the Eagle is there to carry our prayers to the Creator. I pray every morning with a Wanbli Wiyaka, an Eagle Feather, a great honor to have bestowed upon you, and generally only after times of great transformation. And super illegal for me to be in possession of.

You have to be a tribal card carrying member to carry the remains of this endangered species, and for good reason. The Wanbli Oyate, the Eagle Nation, used to be as prolific as the rest of the pre-colonial symbiotic partners of our great Turtle Island. Then we showed up and hatched a plan of a free market that puts a price on another's life, gotta crack some eggs to make an omelet, which empowered the poaching of our most sacred allies. Yep, def sounds like us, breaking bird law, but they were already going bald anyway, weren't they?

*******

There was a tropical Pawpaw grove invading the creekside, berries everywhere, a Dogbane patch for making rope, and of course the customary appearance of the occasional poisonous Snake. We pulled the tarp off the woodpile and there she was, a big beautiful Copperhead sitting right on top. Dinnertime.

JK, I wasn't quite there yet, prob still a little butthurt about the last one, plus, I'm not too keen on killing such a spiritual animal when we already have everything we need. They're connected to the Wakinyan, and I knew I'd be seeing more of them after I'd laid my brother to rest. Part of the Snake's medicine is that of transmutation, to take in the poisons of negative energy, and convert them into a positive influence upon the world. Probably a pretty good medicine to have following me around. They're also here to remind us to be mindful, to be present in the moment, pay attention to life, otherwise a Snake might jump out and bite you.

We caught and bagged her, quite a scene as we jumped around in a frantic frenzy, and then released her a few miles down the road. Definitely better than the slaughterhouse, though it doesn't seem too friendly to disorient and drop her off on the side of the road either. Also don't want a barefoot bite mark to stop our never ending sweat.

Benjamin had been bitten before, no anti-venom available, so he just had to ride it out. He was pretty sick for a few days, and as he recovered, he also developed a new respect for spatial awareness. And he certainly didn't go on a spiteful rampage to avenge his own misstep. He was starting to get a little annoyed with the Beaver though.

*******

He almost scared me off the dock. I was standing at the edge with a rod, when all of a sudden the platform started rumbling. Bunch of commotion, and then this big ol' Beaver shot out into the crystal clear water in a stunning display of flat tailed flashery. No, I mean I was actually stunned. He'd been hanging out for a while, we'd see the occasional felled tree, and eventually we found his lodge not too far from ours. Ben was worried about him taking out the trees around the inipi, he'd already gnawed on one, so we peed on it to mark our territory.

Not an entitled posting of private property, but a sign for the community to see that we were actively holding space on the land. If you are existing in a place with a relationship to the Earth, then it will naturally accommodate your comfort at the ground level. No need to mow the grass of a yard that you live on, it will gladly lay down and provide plenty of room for activities. No use for a machete to keep a trail blazed by force, as long as they're actually used, natural pathways are maintained far more efficiently than any four lane. The Earth wants to be lived on, and as long as we live on her, she is the most gracious host. It's only once we attempt to subdue her systems in a scheme to control more than we could ever enjoy, that she suddenly becomes a force of reclamation worthy of the destruction of our egos.

I, of course, was just trying to learn all I could from the most industrious of the Animal Nation. Chapa, the Beaver Spirit, the busiest of our brothers, and our spiritual guides of building and preparation. Natural proof that the logging industry must not be that bad after all, though I'd still like to dig a little deeper into this dam thing.

Fact – Beavers cut down trees to build their homes. Well, ok then, now we know that there is no fundamental policy against harvesting a living organism to provide shelter. I'm still kinda doubting I'll come out on the side of the devastating clearcutters, but where exactly is the greywater area in-between? They don't take more than they need, what would they even do with an extra log, roll it down stairs? And how do they choose who lives and dies, besides of course the log-istically obvious choice of easy to chew softwoods?

You also have to examine the impact of the dam itself. America is certainly the largest damnation in the world, and now this voluptuous vermin has validated the clogging of our arteries, so we're good now, right? We felt empowered enough to build massive dams, so large that the concrete in the center is literally still not done curing. Dams built to exploit the natural flow of energy in the name of turning a profit. Dams which caused devastating floods and dislocated countless species, including many tribes of our own. Dams that inhibit aquatic migration and disrupt sediment flow, which leads to stalewater and riverbed erosion. But at least the invasive species benefit greatly from our species' invasion.  
Those Beavers though, their homes slow the flow and cause flooding too, but that only creates new riverways and wetlands for the rest of the circle to bloom. In fact, the interwoven ecology of the Beaver, proves to be one of the most biodiverse habitats there is, especially when it comes to birds and bugs. Yum. So he must be doing something right. Scale and impermanence are probably a factor, as well as the lack of any monetary motivation. Three traits common to the indigenous logging industry of tipi manufacturing.

I know the health benefits of a tipi way of life, and I've confirmed my suspicion that native pole harvesting is rooted in natural order, so now I'm feeling pretty good about it all. As with any plant that we collect, we pray first. We offer Unci Maka a pinch of Tobacco and thank her for this gift of life, and we give a big wopila tanka to the trees who will provide us protection. We would never clearcut a forest, we select our material in a manner conducive to a flourishing ecosystem. We are a part of that ecosystem. So, sure, leveling the environment to produce dollar bills is obviously not gonna jive with my worldview, but what about building a lincoln log cabin?

I grew up on fifty acres of woods, and I knew it well, between firewood and the sawmill, I saw the forest as the ultimate in chore security. We didn't come close to clearcutting, a lot of our lumber had even come from hurricane damage, so we were arguably doing a good deed. We were also a family of five with more outbuildings than people. And we were hoarders, packrats, a symptom of living inside a world based on scarcity, but we took it to a new level. Not only did we have enough junk that we had to build something to store it in, and not only did we need so many buildings that we operated our own sawmill, but we were so efficient that we used the sawmill to build buildings to house our 1/32 size replicas of tiny little sawmills. Circle of something, alright.

All that construction didn't seem too destructive at the time, except maybe to my teenage slack cycle, but what if every family of five occupied this much square footage and skinned it with the bodies of our fallen brothers? Might start to add up, just like the calculators at the banks, who finance the transformation of nature into a housing crisis. If you're joining my class action suit against agriculture, then it's easy to see the same cogs of capitalism spinning away. Monoculture on a megaflora scale, destroying a vibrant ecosystem to ship the goods across the globe to the highest bidder. But forget money (believe me, I'd love to), what if I was out in the big bad scary wilderness all alone? I can build a shelter, can't I?

Small scale of course, a humble way of life leaves no choice, plus I already gave away everything I owned. Small in relative terms, I could live in a fung-shuied tipi that leaves no permanent ground scars, and I'd only have to cut twelve younger trees, which leaves the rest of the forest to flourish. Or there's the cabin of the patriarchal squares, which will take the sacrifice of over fifty specimens of mother's maturation. Plus, not only is a circular design better for internal energy flow, it's also preferred by the wind and the water and every other force of nature driving through the neighborhood.

But forget the energy moving around it, or the extra energy going into it, could it really be all that bad? It's gotta be way better than the standard constructs of consumerism. Indeed. They're far more energy efficient, the logs soak up the sun and retain warmth, yet also keep the place cool in the summer. Far less emissions released during the fabrication process. Wool can be used instead of fiberglass between the logs, though I'm not too sure how the sheep feel about it. And you can use mortar to hold it all together, instead of the more common petroleum-based alternative. Sounds pretty solid, way sturdier against a market collapse than that house of cards in the suburbs. I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it all, but I do know two things for sure: A tree farm is not a forest, and I've never seen an animal build a square house.

*******

And then there's the plants we harvest for prayer. Not for food or shelter, the most easily justifiable of sacrifices, but for our sacred ceremony of connecting to the same universal life energy that used to pulse through the veins of our Plant Nation brothers. Obviously I'm not giving up on prayer, so I seek understanding of my relationship with these living beings, and try to exercise humility as I yearn to live in a good way.

We take Dakota Sage into the lodge, ceremonial Sage, different from the White Sage of the california hippie. It grows wild all over the plains, and because of the respectful and prayerful way that it is collected, it continues to bloom as a prolific member of our living landscape. We smudge the lodge and ourselves with the purifying smoke of Cedar, and like Sage, it can also clear a kitchen of germs and flies far safer than a can of lysol, and it only took a few low hanging branches to make that happen. After ceremony, and after a quick dip, we gather around the sacred fire and smoke the chanupa. Pipe carriers use different smoke blends, usually a combo of Tobacco, Mullein, Red Willow bark, and other sacred plants. The smoke has a grounding effect and opens the pineal gland, it connects you to Wakan Tanka as the exhale of spirit carries the prayers of the lodge into the heavens.

Benjamin grew his own Tobacco, agriculture at its finest cut, but certainly the only way to ever get a chemical-free additive for his organic blend. (It's also illegal to grow Tobacco for some reason, probably something to do with the all the money that marlboro pays politicians to ensure their monopoly over lung cancer.) And the Mullein, what a freaking miracle plant. It's actually good for you to smoke, supposedly, as it opens the lungs and makes breathing easier. While I was at the farm finishing up 'Step One', I was writing about Mullein, and as I researched it, I was blown away – and then it saved the day.

We'd been sweating for weeks, pushing our impurities and melting away our egos, but also melting our earwax. After a month of remelting my hearing candles, the wax started to clog up my ears and I was concerned of a possible ear infection. Ear infection, no problem, there's Mullein growing in the front yard. The leaves are strong medicine, but for this I needed the flowers, so I just crushed some up and warmed them in some stray olive oil that I foraged. After some drops and soaks and squirts, I'd managed to extract more wax than a fracked beehive. Luckily for me, it had been blooming, so we just walked down and took what we needed. We only took what we needed and left the rest to prosper. If it had been farther along in my sister's reproductive cycle, I would have dispersed her seeds in the field on my way in too.

Plants have evolved many health and taste benefits, developed only because the animals that enjoy them, do their part in the global seed distribution network. Except us of course. Oh, we distribute some seeds alright, even before the sterile techno-seeds of laboratory lore, we had that figured out. Everybody gets a cell to serve their life sentence so that we can serve their cells for dinner. We just gotta have our cell service, you know. But shouldn't that extend a species' journey far and wide? Farm and wide maybe.

Now that the seed's been planted that our food comes from the store, we can't wait to remove the icky reproduction cycle of our fallen brothers. Cut out the core and throw it away. Gross, seeds! Or you could eat the whole apple like I do, seeds and all, allowing the trace amounts of cyanide to build your tolerance to chemical warfare. (Oh, I know I'm out there, paranoid and ridiculous at times, just laugh it off maybe, though, I guess I have been personally poisoned by the US government. Plus Apple seeds fight cancer.) But then the colonized colon just pours the seeds of life down the drain, as they join the daily seven billion gallon waterslide of waste.

Could throw the seeds in the yard, I guess. Now that sounds like a great idea, some might even want to live there, assuming you're good company and all. Others might provide sustenance for another, or get scoped up as they begin their own adventure of world travel. Oh, wait, but we don't want plants in our grass, we pay a lot of money for that stuff. We have to have a better yard than our neighbors, and that certainly means eradicating the naturally growing medicine plants of the neighborhood. Funny how the popularization of an invasive grass allergy and the criminalization of that other one, both benefit the very same pharmaceutical industry.

And agriculture as well, that is if you still buy into the optical delusion that they're not one and the same. They want you scared the eff out of eating anything untouched by the machine. Might be a bug on it or something, yuck! Should probably cut down all these wild edible weeds and grab some sod on the way to the grocery store. But not everyone is grossed out by eating yard snacks, many just don't realize how abundant of a garden is already growing where they want to plow for a garden. Probably something to do with the lack of fifty-million dollar marketing campaigns.

"Got Dandelions?" Fresh salads, fried flowers, and the roots make not only a great coffee substitute, but you can actually make flour from them. Step right up and try a delicious piece of Dandelion frybread. Oh, there's no charge my friend, this bus only accepts love in exchange for services rendered, plus it runs on frybread oil.

*******

I recently spent a few weeks in civilization, ugh, but I did get a chance to eat some shrubs. A cactus really, Prickly Pear, a decorative plant living in many yards around the neighborhood. Pretty, sure, but the whole thing is edible, and the purple round fruit that sprout off of it are super yummy. We asked a neighbor if they minded us harvesting them, no prob, they didn't even know you could eat them, surprise surprise. Peeled and seeded them, they were great raw, but then we cooked them down into a syrupy jam kinda thing. So good. Full of fiber, calcium, potassium, magnesium, and antioxidants; it treats skin wounds, digestive issues and urinary tract infections; plus it makes a delicious drizzle for Oat milk ice cream or Dandelion pancakes.

How could these healthy fruits slide through the cracks in the concrete without the hungriest invasive species devouring every last drop? The cactus grows unnoticed, even when it decided to grow in a food desert, so why are people counting change for the dollar menu when there's a parfait growing in the front yard? They just don't know any better. It's as if their brains have been washed of all of this instinctual knowledge. Traditional knowledge. Ancestral knowledge.

And those whose connection to Unci Maka couldn't be washed away with propaganda, received the deep cleanse cycle we offered at gunpoint. Kidnapped into 'boarding schools', beaten, molested, starved and murdered as they were forced to deny their undeniable connection to their living planet.

"Kill the indian, save the man." A policy enacted in the late 1800s and still used to justify the white washing of an imprisoned nation. A nation whose connection to the countryside posed the greatest threat to the chokeholds of capitalism. Kinda hard to enslave a population with rumors of food scarcity, when the stuff seems to just grow on trees. No big – poisons, fences and bullets should guarantee our indentured servitude to the agrimachine that is striving to become the sole provider of commoditized life energy. Why would we ever think about the food supply chain, when our entire processed diet is available at one convenient location?

And I haven't even gotten to the part about reservations, and how impossible it is to get any type of quality food anywhere nearby. On a land set aside to provide for those still living in a natural way, and of course we broke most of that, but even they have buried treasure in their backyard and don't know it. If in just a few generations, an entire way of living could be erased, it becomes super easy to see how it happened to an entire country of immigrants who were told to be scared of the new world that they didn't understand.

But we are not those people. We understand. We have all this science about how our home works. We are undergoing a reconnection to the planet's grounding energy. Plus, there's a good chance grocery stores and highways and stuff might stop working for a bit, so it's actually a pretty good idea to be able to get a few square meals, out of your square yard, in the square blocks, within a square mile of your colony. Sorry, got cross-ranted there for a sec, but a galaxy's a circle, solar system's a circle, planet's a circle, Lakota village: circle, tipi: circle, fire: circle, Sun, Moon, Bird's nest, energy spiral, life cycle... anyway, where were we?

So, cool, eating stuff growing locally is good, duh, but obviously we're missing something crucial if people are going hungry on our sidewalk buffets. Folks just don't know. They'd love to, but it's impossible to even realize you're missing something, when the entirety of society tells you that you've got it all figured out. Just gotta decide which "natural flavor" packet to enrich and refortify those processed peas with. Sure, the conspiracies of agriculture run deeper than the tractor can dig up, but the puppeteers behind the scenes have been able to lie dormant, as the well-oiled machine plows under an entire way of life all on its own. A way of life that actually promotes a healthy and stable living environment. A 'living' environment.

But why on God's green Earth would I plant things you could eat in my yard? First of all, gross, where's the barcode and FDA stamp? And second of all, do you think I want a bunch of dirty hippie homeless people having a transient picnic party on my nice green grass? Double gross. So, yeah, maybe some of my ideas that promote the survival of humanity are a little farfetched, would require us working together and loving each other without condition, a long shot to even the most optimistic statistician. But, in all honesty, it's the only way we stand a chance, so let's assume that we can get that part figured out in time. Plus, I picked up a few inside tips along the way, best I can tell, it's all gonna work out just fine.

*******

Once the government shuts down, or the asteroid hits, or the mail stops running, or they cancel Orange is the New Black, or whatever happens, it'll be easy to talk people into eating the limited amount of whatever they can find within the inescapable confines of an urban gridlock. But they won't really know how, and there won't quite be enough cacti to go around, so... maybe we should do something about it while google is still a thing.  
Urban gardens, for sure, still not down with a farm, but without a fence, I got little argument against converting a desolate empty lot or a rooftop into an edible epicenter for everyone. But obviously that won't be enough to meet the demand that monsanto's agriculture commercials have inflated. Or, I guess we could just build relationships with the plants that already live in our neighborhood. Like, if everyone had a Prickly Pear in their yard, or maybe if each house on the block had a different vegetative state, or if instead of driving to the grocery store, all you had to do was walk around the block to throw a dinner party together.

I could even come cook it for you if that's what it takes, wait, maybe that's it. We just teach people how to cook. How to wing it. We relearn the long forgotten ancestral knowledge of seasonal living in a good way, or at least the basics of making a delicious Pearberry smoothie. So maybe your neighborhood houses the spiky succulent, or you start a neighborhood campaign to plant some, or you identify the other naturally sprouting frybread pizza toppings on the block. Or there's even a chance that the corporate developer who's converting a Walnut grove to walnut grove condos, might even leave enough of the fruiting foliage to feed a few tree hugging hippie nuts along the way.

That was possibly not even a sarcastic pretend idea kinda thing, even the bulldozing builders can play a vital role in the re-empowering of our planet. As much as I believe that the government's been conspiring against us since before its very beginning, I also know that they don't have to micromanage the oppression, the indoctrinations of the civilized keep the machine (and your petroleum combustion engine) turning all on their own. There's not some agriculture lobbyist at the construction site inspecting the nutritional value of the courtyard, it's just common knowledge among the colonies that we'd prefer a pretty poisonous ivy instead of some dumb looking bean plant.

That's the thing about those business types, they're all caught up on the rules of capitalism, on the hook to supply whatever we demand. So was it ever even their fault for supplying devastation, when all we had to do was demand a little better customer service? I bet if local food availability was as important to us as wifi, you wouldn't even be hungry by the time you made it to the restaurant you just googled. Bad for business, good for humankind, such a shame that those two don't line up that often.  
But in this story they do, they've seen what we want, a fanciful garden sprouting out of every corner of unconcreted cityscape, and they've put their money where our mouth is. Prickly Pears line the block, and an entire menu of municipal munchies also make the cut, but it's still just a flower garden until people's eyes have been opened to how quickly their stomachs can be.

I've been a community organizer, and I'm not even that organized, so you should have no problem, especially if your neighbors like food. Maybe a quick demo at a get-together, or a taste test at a neighborhood association meeting, just to let everyone know about this week's free seminar on picking Prickly Pears. We'll have a few fun recipes and basic prep pointers, of course some tasty snackitizers, and you'll definitely leave a little less intimidated about eating your front yard.

By this time, I bet people are getting pretty into your wild wednesday workshop series, you might even have them eating bugs by now, so let's reintroduce some natural laws of competition. A facebook-friendly contest of collected cuisine. The Prickly Pear potluck challenge. The Dandelion showdown. The Japanese Beetle jamboreetle.

Just a thought. An idea to inspire another idea that might someday save the world. Or save some hungry kid down the street after the government shuts down. Or some hungry kid right now. I guarantee there are kids going to bed without dinner in your town. Wonder how many of them have a delicious fruit salad growing out back. Oh crap, I might have to rethink things a bit. If I teach everyone a fancy new Japanese Beetle and Kudzu bean dip recipe, and it becomes the latest rage (as it obviously will), then are they going to start destructively farming the invasive species?

"No one can hold, back the dawn"

*******

Or what about farming one species just to feed another, besides us I mean, and what about when that species is a member of the latest greatest kingdom of animals? The animal supremacist has no problem imprisoning an acre of Corn to feed the cattle, even if it does starve out out more than it feeds. They're even cool with feeding little animals to big animals, circle of life and all, and all in the name of processing food. But would they harvest another's lifeforce just for the sport of it?

After sweat, we'd cast a few and see who was biting. There for a while, it seemed like we were reeling them in as fast as we could throw them out, over and over again. What an abundance. Or was it excess? We'd eventually realize that perhaps we'd overfished the population. But no worries about the next slow season as the ecosystem finds its evolutionary equilibrium, we'll just restock the stagnant water of what's starting to seem like yet another inescapable aquarium. And funny enough, the Bass preferred a petroleum imposter over a fresh dug wiggler. Freakin dapl. The Brim still liked the organic variety, kinda got me thinking a bit though. Uh oh, here we go again.

So, what exactly are the ethics of using live bait? And I obviously mean 'live' as in the animal 'live', not the 'live' that describes the plants that share the same universal energy as everyone else, they don't speak english though, so they're certainly a lesser class of organism, right? I'm talking about: Is it ok to shove a hook through my no-legged brother's body, and just in the hopes of him getting devoured, as I slam the same hook through a bigger member of our planet? Circle of life baby.

Except those that turn around and turn them free, true animal lovers indeed, as they catch and release to preserve populations. Fishing for sport, also known as ripping a hook violently into another's mouth, lip, throat, eye, neck, whatever, and then yanking them out by the wound. Very sporting old chap. Now, you know that I'm so down with hunting, for food, but for sport? Well, it's just not a fair enough game to be any entertaining, they don't even have weapons, maybe if our constitution gave us the right to arm Bears.

So, Worm farms supplying the sporting goods industry, maybe not so much, but how about me digging up a creepy crawly just a few feet from the lake's edge? No farm or agriculture or interference in their way of life, at least until I successfully hunt them in their natural habitat. Knowing me, I'd probably be just as happy eating the Worm, definitely within mama's playground guidelines, but what are the ramifications of trying to trade your way up the food chain?

Let's assume that my lucky streak continues and my first cast lands the big one, dang I'm crushing it, and now we've traded a tiny little living creature for a member of the Fish Nation, who will be enough to feed our entire family for the night. And the Fish got fed, his last meal on the way to the guillotine, but that still counts, and then we keep that circle spinning around the kitchen table. I mean, I guess the circle ends upon impact with colonization, as they often do, got chained down and all, but we're just talking about the dumb little animals right now. It's not like they can feel a hook penetrating the length of their body as they squirm to get away, or through a minnows eye socket, though it does somehow seem even worse than slavery now that I think about it.

Kidnapping a 'lower-class' citizen, loading them up on a boat, physically abusing them as they're tied down and made to trade their lifeforce so that their captors can live in convenience. No fence necessary for this short stay on death row. Well, pardon me, but doesn't that at least give them the chance to escape? Go sports.

That's kinda the part that gets me, the fishhook impalement survivors, both the predators and the prey, though most of the unbitten baitfish aren't long for this world with their newborn head trauma in a pool of predation. I'm so down with killing another animal to eat it, but essentially murdering a brother in the hopes that he's put out of his misery early by a keeper, something just doesn't feel right about it. Hang out where your food hangs out, love it. You can even use your supposedly complex human superiority, to groom the garden so that we're surrounded by the favorite grubs of our favorite fillets. But getting them hooked and tossed into the deep end? What if we were Tiger fishing with kittens?

*******

I'm not trying to kill anything that I'm not eating. Not even a Fly. Literally. Killed one accidentally while trying usher it outside, and had to pray for a bit before I could move on in a good way. (I'm a bit of a nut job, I get it.) Tons of Flies out here on the farm, just another fun byproduct of herding the cattle, but we wouldn't think of swatting them. Well, maybe we still think about it occasionally. But I've made peace with their presence, like with the Ants, especially since I can see that it is only due to our presence, that this is a suitable habitat for them to flourish. We created the niche for them to fill, which they filled because they are needed for some ecological reason or another, or because God told them to. So either way, I'm not trying to interfere in an intricate web of complex life and start deciding who I want to live and die, just so that I can live a conveniently comfortable life of extravagance.

Folks will tell you about the disease they spread which threatens all of humanity, people who I thought couldn't harm a Fly seem to have no problem hanging a sticky death trap, because Flies spread disease, destruction, and famine. Of course, I say the same about the civilized liberties that we take with the agri-ranching industry, those who bred the Flies in the first place.

The Cows don't get upset at the conglomerating clingers-on, no more than a friendly swat at least, so I think of them as I let the pests hone my mind-over-matter skills. If I stop typing every time a Fly hits me, I'll never get done with this extra-long novel, so I convinced myself that it felt good, that I wanted them there with me. I was simply sharing space with my brothers, talking to them, and it was far less annoying once they actually landed and quit buzzing around. If it had been Butterflies, it would have been the cutest thing, so what's the big deal? I know, I'm pretty much a wackadoo, but at least I wasn't eating them, yet.

So I think that settles that bit of it, I can't kill an innocent Earthling that I don't intend to eat, so no live bait for me. Using a lure should be cool, seen plenty of fish with extremities designed to mimic their prey's prey, I'm just thinking that rubber and oil-based is probably not the way to go. A rubber lure may work alright for a cast or two, but as it gets nibbled away, it leaves pollution nuggets all over the lake and in the innards of the wetland denizens. So maybe hand-tied flies made out of heady biodegradable materials?

And what about the whole idea of hooking a fish? Can't really be that fun for the fish, huh? Sure, maybe a little violent, drawn out, torturous, and sometimes the hook goes in weird places and does even more damage coming out, but historically the hunt isn't always the most pleasant for the hunted. Plenty of hunters in the wild pierce their prey, and sometimes they escape with a flesh wound, so can't feel too bad for the one that got away, although most of nature's killers seem to do it in a more humane fashion than the fashionable humans do. Gotta look to my indigenous homies for this one, spear fishers, now we got something to talk about.

*******

Imagine minnesota back before the vikings conquered it, that was cold, and full of indigenous tribes like the Ojibwe. These native peoples have sustained themselves for millennia on the local abundance of wild Rice, Maple syrup, and the days catch of fresh Walleye. At least until we got involved. You know the story, and if you don't, then just wait til the bit about reservation dinners.

Needless to say, in the 1800s, they signed a treaty with the US government, as they relinquished control of the state, to the state. The indians, of course, didn't get much out of it, except for not getting murdered, I guess. Some of them at least. They did manage to retain the right to collect their traditional foods from the fractured fraction of land that we oh so graciously put on reserve for them, including the right to hunt Walleye, with a spear. And then we took that away too. It's been a controversial subject from back then, until current times, like, it's still going on.

Yes, surprise surprise, the american dream of starving out the indians isn't just a thing of the past, like your history books would have you believe. Got pretty violent back in the 80's, the 1980's, like the he-man and mario cartoon eighties. Seems that your father's colonization isn't just for colonial times anymore. Civil-ians were so upset, how dare these conquered people be permitted to hunt in this traditional manner? This just isn't natural. Why can't they just give up on trying to live in harmony with their living Earth, and get a good old fashioned industrial factory job like the rest of us? Why catch your own Fish, when you could waste your life's energy away making someone else rich, while you make just enough to afford the pollutions of processed fish sticks?

They hunted with spears, at a time when the law actually seemed to be kinda on their side, but boy were people all up in a tizzy. For years there were protests filled with racial slurs and violence. How dare they be allowed to fish in this most simple way, while non-tribal members had to resort to oil-guzzling motorboats and all that other stuff I was going on about before? But the best part, is that the protesters were mainly sport fishers. Yep, a racist mob throwing beer bottles at you, for following your family's sacred traditions, and for the measly 6% of the total catch that your tribe is responsible for, which is directly responsible for your village's livelihood, but we already knew that america was obsessed with sports. What a sport too, does the other team ever win?

Protests got rough, violence escalated, the governor asked the supreme court to revoke the indigenous hunting rights to end the violence, the violence being perpetrated by white protesters of a perfectly legal practice, a treaty right, in a country who claims to hold treaties as the "supreme law of the land." Yeah right. So of course AIM showed up, the indian activist group originated in minnesota, so they kinda had to. The state tried to buy out the tribe's fishing rights, not gonna do it, and new politicians ran on the platform of eradicating native treaty rights, or between the lines it may have been more about eradicating natives.

Oh pish posh, it's not like that anymore, that was a more barbaric time of wild western guns and gold, we're good old tithing and tax paying americans by now. Except that it's happening right now, at this very moment, in minnesota. Enbridge Line 3, it was one of the camps I considered going to after Standing Rock, and some of us did, and have been fighting the fight for the last year, and I heard it gets even colder there. Lucky.

Plus, wouldn't it be such an honor to face off against the record holding champions of corporate contamination? Not only does enbridge hold title to the worst oil spill in the country, they also double-majored with the most spills in minnesota's history. Somehow, their 800 spills over the last few years managed to get PHSMA's attention, the Pipeline and Hazardous Safety Materials Administration, who rarely intervene in the plowing of pipes ahead, but for some reason they deemed it necessary to issue corrective action due to the excessive number of non-exxon spills.

They already operate fifty-thousand miles of pipeline, and if this goes through, they will be moving two hundred million gallons a day, while the great lakeside refinery can only process an 1/800th of that flow. Doesn't quite add up, except in the wallet conspiracy, and with the seventeen planned facilities of refining the future's freshwater, of which a fifth of the world's supply will be poisoned by this pipe. And the pipeline will trash the wild Rice beds that have fed the Ojibwe for millennia, a free abundant healthy food source for the symbiotic caretakers of our planet... nope, that's certainly not good for business.

*******

I can definitely see myself winding up there at some point, very stoked about their wild food traditions, but where did we land on the whole stabbing fish thing? Well, no resources expended, besides the hunter's lifeforce energy, no pollution or toxic leftovers poisoning the survivors, no hooks lodged in anyone's mouth for the rest of their life, and somehow I bet that a quick prayerful sacrifice is far more peaceful than a beer soaked battle to the death. Oh, and there's no need to put another's life on the line in order to lure in the next victim, but, the Worms might still have to worry about the Chickens.

So why did the Chicken cross the road? She didn't. Everything she could need was right here on the farm. She's happy to trade her babies for a place to stay, at least that's what we tell ourselves over our Sweet Potato omelets. Alright then, well let's take another look.

The foul had a ball out at Ben's, super cage-free, and a protective coup that they could check in and out of at their leisure. They weren't held hostage and forced into assimilation through food, although they did get an optional ground Wheat supplement added to their natural diet. They had free reign of the place, Cow patty crawlers and compost piles, and they liked to sneak into the barn for a bite of sweet feed when we weren't looking. So definitely free range, with a 'healthy' dose of gluten to boot, but I'm not here to critique another's diet.

It almost even looks symbiotic. We provide them a safe home, protection from the Fox, a cozy place to lay, and all we ask for in return is every single one of your unborn babies. And as for protection, I think it's more like us protecting our investment, livestock doesn't go for Chicken scratch anymore. Well, can't they just leave? And some did, or started laying elsewhere at least, so we were on a mission to sniff out their new digs. Couldn't be too far, probably just in the barn or something, there's no way they'd adventure out into the wooded wild. Why, they wouldn't even survive ten minutes out there.

Ah, I see, the uber cage-free leaves the farmer's conscience clear, while leaving no threat of dinner running off, because they're surrounded by an unnavigable circle of predators who want more than just their eggs. Kinda starting to seem a little cagey, or at least a little fence-ish.

But not all Chickens are so, well, chicken. In Kauai, Hawaii, the Chickens have gone back to the wild. They survived a hurricane and now live in the woods, and they are super freakin tough. They had to be in order to survive, and all those that weren't, didn't. Nature selected the strongest, fastest, and smartest birds, and they've evolved to become a formidable opponent for even the foulest of players. Now we're talking my language, go sports, this is definitely a Chicken fight I can get behind. I bet it's a bit more challenging to gather eggs from these creatures left to their own devices, than from the mechanically separating devices of the modern egg factory. I'm so down. I love eggs from my head down to my feet, so if I can at all help it, I'm gonna keep eating them.

Eating tiny little unborn babies of my fine feathered friends? Sounds pretty ruthless, hardly civilized, though I doubt there are too many ruths left in the plumply populated poultry prison camps of our most civil union. So what do my animal guides have to say on the issue? Game on. My new bff, brother Copperhead, he's got no moral dilemma separating egg whites from their mothers, and if you can't trust a serpent's dinner recommendations...

*******

I'd imagine it'll be quite a bit more challenging than cracking a carton, definitely not as convenient, but at least our laziness isn't at the cost of our living-stocks livelihood. Be tough to get more eggs than would fit in one basket, nowhere near a surplus when you're providing for a tribe, and that's precisely the point. Living in excess has destroyed the planet, or is about to anyway. Our grotesque overconsumption of anything they could put a dollar figure on, has drained our mother of vital bodily fluids, which only widens our species-wide disconnect from the energy of the planet. The language of the Earth. The songs that our mother sings to us while we sleep, preparing us to wake up in a good way. Helping us to grow in our understanding of the connection shared with every single living thing of this planet.

Every cell of this globalized superpower, is a supporting character, who together compose the ensemble cast of the greatest stage play on Earth. Everyone's got a role, the part they were born to play, plus there's even a little room for improv. Lines change, the script adapts, the show evolves very night, but it all happens pretty organically. Everyone seems to go with the flow, never missing a beat, all tuned-in to the reassuring guidance of the observing director, who's chosen the most fit to provide each contribution to this perpetually sold-out star-studded masterpiece. But you know those new york broadway types...

So the show goes on great, for a long long time, but then this kid, one of the recent additions to the cast, decides that he's the next big thing and the whole world goes to his head. Mr Ego. He thinks the whole thing is about him. He's the shining star of a story whose script reads nothing of the like, but it's his destiny to have creative control over one of the most classic love stories of all time. He's on his way up, just had to climb over a few fallen players to get there. By now, there's been so many lines rewritten to accommodate for the tunnel-visioned selfishness of an overworked actor, to a point that many cast members have been cut out altogether, as the primitive pretender looks around to find himself in monologue. And who says there's no monoculture left in the arts?

Except that no matter how many rewrites happen, the play is still not about him. It is about a glorious transformation of being, not a disappointing descendence of unvolving. He was not left alone to provide every facet of an infinitely complex unfolding of history. The play's not about history. It's about herstory. Her story. Unci Maka. Grandmother Earth. Your life story is about what you do to strengthen the plot of hers.

But he wasn't alone on stage it turns out, the remaining cast was still trying to perform the piece, though they had somehow been downgraded to background extras. Their weakened voices easily muffled by the overpowering presence of such large footprints.

We certainly have a dominating voice, but we're caught in a loop of rationalizing destructive behavior in the name of increasing that very voice's dominion. Sounds like a confusing cluster of stage chatter, but we have a trick up our sleeve. A new tool to help us drown out our mother's symphonic lullaby in exchange for three chord mainstream pop. A purely human invention to prove the pre-assumed hypothesis of human superiority. A self-fulfilling prophecy of planetary prominence, as we award ourselves the power of attorney over our sick and dying mother. There's contracts and paperwork and signatures and stuff, but they're all in 'human,' because we're the deciders, and you don't get a vote unless you speak our foreign language.

*******

Yes, language, human language, at least the colonized phonetic written language. It extended our ability to communicate about nonsense, as it constricted our ability to listen to anyone other than ourselves. It made possible the abstract concepts that would never be conceivable with a homegrown indigenous language, like humans and nature being two separate things.

Now, I'm not gonna suggest that we stop reading and writing, at least not until we finish this thing, but I am going to open a dialogue exploring the undeniable effect that a written text of arbitrary symbols, has had on the fluid oral traditions of a dialect based on a connection with the land, and a resonance with the surrounding natural world. It is a language based on strictly human sounds, human thought processes, a human concept of intelligence, and designed to differentiate between nature and the two-leggeds with words like 'property.' And concepts like owning another living organism, or an entire habitat of them, an impossibility with a communication system interwoven with the fabric of the local ecology. It's embedded as deeply as the subtle nuances of capitalizing the colonies, as they are permitted to tower over the lowercase citizens of our planet.

Indigenous, means 'occurring naturally of a place.' Arising from the land. A piece of a community in which your ancestors compose the hills, and your microbiology is interwoven with the fabric of the forest floor. An indigenous language born in a particular bioregion, and consequently allowed to grow and evolve alongside an extended family of cohabitation, will undoubtedly hold the key to unlocking many secrets of the scenery. I'm not even talking about the casted spelling of magic words that open portals into the dreamtime, nah, I'm just talking about food and stuff.  
Whichever indigenous community used to live underneath of whatever concrete colony you do now, their oral tradition connected them to the Earth, ancient wisdom, and an understanding of planetary systems that science is only now discovering. I know first hand about a spiritual connection with Unci Maka, but I know that you can't just tell someone about it, so for the skeptics, I'll pretend that I'm not talking about literally communicating with the plants.

They definitely knew a lot about the plants from somewhere though, so if it wasn't through an instinctual connection to the living energy of their native roots, we'll just assume it was through trial and error that led to an endless about of disappearing plant wisdom. So as the first people found a new plant and thoroughly exhausted their trials and errors, they documented the various uses and had to commit them to memory somehow. Names that described the lifeforms around them was a good start, and then came stories that personified the Plant Nation, or the Plant People, chronicling each plant spirit's journey, how their energies live on in the leaves today, and the many ways in which they provide for the two-legged nation.

A mnemonic way to pass down generations of collected data, but when spoken in their native tongue, there is another level of cryptic clue uncovered. The rhythmic cadence and flow of the dialogue is in time with the land, the tones are in key with the birds, the humans are a part of the orchestra. So naming a bird after what it sounds like, and then tuning your body to the exact pitch of theirs, and then a story about how to hunt them and where in your local neighborhood they like to hang out, yep, bird skills unlocked.

There's also unspoken lessons of an entire way of life, an eco-friendly worldview whose philosophy is completely lost upon translation into a disconnected language, one whose root words are in concrete and not soil. A human-centric language cannot convey an accurate representation of "Mitakuye Oiyasin," "We are all related." I can say that the Beaver is my brother, but you don't read that literally, or on any type of level that begins to explain this concept in the same way we feel it in our hearts.

Our language is built on arrangements of abstract symbols that represent human mouth shapes, in contrast, oral languages are composed of the sounds that are evoked from the emotions created by the living landscape that envelops their entire way of life. Pagan languages connect people to the Earth as their mind transports them to a grounded reality, phonetic language can only be visualized as letter sequences floating through empty space.

An Earthly dialect contains no translation for 'mine.' No 'property.' No 'religion.' God was not separate from nature, God was all around, in every single plant, animal, rock, cloud and Wakinyan. Only with a disconnected language of abstract separation, was a God who was not of this planet able to be written in, which explains why the missionaries were the number one salesmen for the new phonetic alphabet.

Don't quite know if it explains the violent measures used to force the God's english onto their native tongues though. Hard to blame the God fearing missionaries who were just doing their jobs, plus, I bet it scared them when the vocalizations of the natives seemed to resonate with the land in a way that their own speech didn't even attempt, just like the other ones they burned at the stake.

*******

So maybe I need to learn Lakota to uncover more mysteries, but for now I'll be happy with chickenese. I know that so far, I'm pulling for the wild Chicken challenge, but I understand that there will be concessions to this Chicken stand. We're not gonna be egg rich. It'll be ok. Part of this transition will be us remembering how to share, forgetting about excess and eggstravagance, as we reconnect to a diverse family who can provide for us, as long as we honor and respect the other members of our community.

It's ok if we don't eat an egg everyday. If a predator of humans emerges in the coming days, I bet we wouldn't mind if they took a day off here and there. So maybe we have to use our cunning and guile to outsmart the nest guard, or just plain brawn, or possibly take down the bird too and I could use the eggs for some double-breaded drumsticks. I guarantee that it'll taste good, and you won't take a single bite for granted as you savor every morsel of this most precious gift of life's energy.

That's how it is supposed to be. Gratitude. Wopila Tanka. Thank you Unci Maka for this incredible gift of life. If you actually take the time to cherish every bite, as you recognize the sacrifice that another has made so the you could be nourished, it becomes easy to be satisfied with just a small taste of yummy goodness. Like a tiny little yummy Bluebird egg. Ew! Aw! What a tyrant! Why a cute little Bluebird? Well, why not?

And not even just the blue ones, I figure if I can only justify eating eggs of an unkempt variety, then I'll be taking anything I can get ahold of. If I can find the nest, I bet I can pretty easily overpower the security detail. They'll be the tiniest wobbling weebles, but their size would force me to be meticulous and thorough in their handling and preparation. Bluebird benedict. Or maybe a wildwood weed Dandelion brownie. Either way, the small portions will make up for it in genuine nutrient richness, as we learn that we don't actually need a stomach full of empty calories to survive.

Or, I could go on a wild Goose chase, a bigger payoff, but a bit more risk as well. I recently had a deviled Goose egg. A loose Goose. It was the bestest, creamiest, most delectable deviled egg I'd ever had. They'd taken up shop on a pond at a friends house, so she found the nest and grabbed half of them for dinner. If she had taken them all, the Goose would have no reason to return, so she left some and the supply was replenished. She is aware that her actions affect the livelihood of the webbed life that crosses her path, it's easy once you cultivate a connection with the world growing around you. Take all the eggs... no more eggs. Pick all the Sage... no more Sage. Kill all the Buffalo... no more indians?

*******

I'd been out at Benjamin's for a month and a half by this point. Sweat everyday but two. Epic food, and I'd only experienced a brief window of the cornucopia that flowered here. I missed the Kiwis and Figs, the Pawpaw grove down by the creek wasn't ripe yet, and apparently you have to eat them fresh, they don't travel well at all, just my kinda dine-in dinner service. I'd been typing everyday til sweat, then getting back to it once the dinner and drum crew vacated the barn at night. I was getting close, and so was Sun Dance.

Everybody was going. They were all dancing. They were all praying. I came here for a couple of days, over a month ago, I knew about the Sun Dance, but just kept grinding away without expectations, maybe if I finish it I'll end up going too. A water protector who I hadn't known at camp, came to visit for a week before caravanning to ceremony, Leela had worked in the Rosebud herb tent, an herbalist....

And then we made the dopest Peach cobbler. Never one to leave a perfectly good cobbler alone, we topped it off with some of the fresh yogurt we'd made from Lacey's last week on the job. The farm would be mostly unmanned for several weeks, no one would be here to trade milk for Wheat, plus she'd been starting to dry up anyway.

Cows don't simply produce milk all the time, it's baby formula for their calves, and it had been a while since Lacey had been with child. Her cellmate on the other hand, a mama named Charlene, was looking forward to weaning her calf and cashing in. So she was content to continue nursing her little one, providing the undeniably most nutrient rich special formula intended for no one more, helping her calf's development everyday that she chooses to continue nursing, but at the first offer of a scoop of Wheat, she's more than willing to cut off the tap at the nursery. Who am I to judge though? If the cow is actually happy to trade milk for Wheat, then why do I have to get all worked up? It's the fence I guess, if there was no fence and the deal still stood, then I might even whip them up a whole Wheat Dandelion smoothie.

That might not be as crazy as it sounds, well, my version is gonna sound a bit nutty, but I know for a fact that it works on a small personal scale. So if every species has its perfectly evolved niche specific specialties, even an invader like us, then what is our contribution to the greater good of the globe? What is the one thing we can do better than any other animal? Besides breaking stuff at least. An actual contribution to a healthy food cycle, not just another withdrawal of resource, and even those who lack the experience can just wing it. We can be the cooks.

Think about it. How many animals do you know that just love some home cooking? What's something we can offer our neighbors that they can't provide for themselves? What if we could find our niche in a community of otherwise symbiotic partnerships, and instead of imprisoning their hearts, we unlock their stomachs? If the Cow likes our cooking, maybe she would actually volunteer her milk to make it happen. You can laugh and call me a dreamer, or delusional, but my fantasy of a kitchen fueled by a forest full of visitors and a feast of foraged friendship, makes way more sense than the chains and cages around all those supposedly 'happy' cows at your place. Plus, I already know it works.

Just a few days ago, I was talking with a friend and he told me about shooting a Quail, he only winged it though, but then his Dog took off and completed the hunt. Team effort. Only fair to share in the rewards, so he cooked up the Bird and the two split a pretty bromantic dinner. The pup liked it so much that he showed up a few days later with another bird. And then another. Eight or nine times the pup brought home a doggie bag and my friend offered up his naturally evolved specialty of grilling out. I already knew it could work, and now this affirmation just proves to me that it's closer than I think. Obviously we'd need to use our knowledge of food science (unclouded by dollar figures of course) to create dishes that are actually healthy for the various visitors at our creekside cafe. I could keep going on, but everything might turn into a cartoon if I don't stop soon, so just keep in mind that as funny as it sounds, the alternative is a far more ridiculous system of torture and inferior foods, and no one even blinks an eye.

*******

Last night was the last dinner at the farm though. Last sweat too. Bags are packed, prayers are tied, I conveniently finished the first edit of 'Step One' around midnight... time for Sun Dance. I've had such a great time here on the farm, learned so much about the specific things I'd been writing and praying about, I may end up coming back this way, but who really knows? I don't make plans anymore. I wouldn't have ended up here if I did. Or on the way to this most sacred ceremony. I have loose ideas of things I would like to do, talk about them enough to let the magic manifestation engine do its thing, but in the end, I'm happy to be wherever the universe has me. I do get caught in the middle at times, should I go with the flow and see where it takes me, or should I visualize and manifest what I think I want to happen? My prayers get pretty interesting sometimes.

The no plans thing, and the no money bit, both require making a few concessions to a colonized way of life. Gotta have a solid foundation of patience. Maybe waiting somewhere longer than you had expected. May not eat your favorite food every night. Gotta give up some luxuries, they just don't make sense in a life of minimal maximums. Gonna be walking a lot, get used to it. No phone obviously, but I wouldn't carry one of those dapl wiretaps anyway.

Sure, I haven't been doing capitalism this year, and it's been great, but obviously I had to give up some stuff. In fact, since Standing Rock, I've given away basically everything I ever owned. Now I travel with a single outfit, my 'end of the world attire,' cause you never know when that's coming. And then just a couple personal items. My pillow. Always. Didn't take it to north dakota last year and regretted it every morning. A wide camp cup that doubles as a bowl. A knife that I'd gifted my grandfather and inherited back when he went on to the spirit world. And a piece of rope. I had taken a few other things to the farm, but I couldn't commit to traveling the unknown with a full load, so I left a bag of items in the corner for later plundering.

My case is a little extreme, but to get off the grid, you gotta cut back. And you gotta believe. You have to trust in the universe, knowing that as you pour your heart and love into helping all of life around you, all of life will be there for you in return. Now this is living. It's real life though. This is still the real world, so as much as I believe in a world filled with love instead of dollars, I understand that in order to function within the decaying walls of civilization, it takes money. I didn't use it, but it was used in my name. My bus ticket to get here cost money. Once I arrived, most of my needs were covered, partly by my prayer and commitment to this journey, and partly because Ben had worked hard and purchased the title to this place, with money. And now how do you think we were getting to Sun Dance? Money. And oil.

Is that like me living on a farm while I finish a book against agriculture? I'm not in denial of the conflicts, I understand the jam they have us all in, I may have to enter the machine occasionally, but at least I'm conscious of what my impact looks like. And I use any opportunity I can to gain perspective. I learned so much on the farm, and with an open mind, I was able to more completely understand my own philosophies of food ethics.

And the oil, I even grow from burning oil somehow. I know that we are some of the strongest and most dedicated eco-warriors on the planet, and even we have to burn oil to make it happen. This provides me with another level of understanding, of patience, of humility, how can I get frustrated with others for buying in, if we have no other choice either? It helps me to not have a judging perspective of those living in excess, and instead to view them with the compassion of a relative who understands that some lessons just have to be learned on your own.

*******

I still don't like it. Money, gas, the whole shebang. Or the agriculture schtick. How'd they even come up with it in the first place? Well, on this continent, before the colonized CAFOs(concentrated animal feeding operations, yuck) and farm fresh feedlots, some of the native tribes even planted seeds. Gardeners. So not exactly the industrialized monocrops of today's agriculture. Actually, not agriculture at all. Sure, they planted seeds and harvested crops, but they did it in a good way, with respect and reverence for the land and the life that sprouted out of her. They gardened. Horticulture. So whats the difference then? All these competing cultures are making me hungry for some ethical food.

It's a bit of a gray area, especially when both are touted as the same revolutionary boon to humanity, but I think I found it. The most widely accepted difference in the two, is the use of the plow. I'll tweak it a bit and include any mechanized implements. So if you cultivate it by hand - gardening; by machine - farming.

Makes sense really. Only once a single person could plow up a hundred acres for Corn, could an industry simultaneously based on surplus and scarcity bloom the way it has. And I'm not the first radical revolutionary to suggest returning the land to the commons as we level the playing fields. Back in 1649, the Diggers started planting in public spaces and claimed that a person was only allowed to 'own,' or hold stewardship to, as much as they could work themselves, by hand. Alright alright alright, now we're talking. No one could ever have too much, no uneven distribution of wealth, you can be in charge of what you can do yourself, and that's it. Makes the idea of a destructive monocrop a no-brainer, unless you really like Corn, I guess.

Also makes possible a more beneficial way of interacting with the Earth and her children, like letting them hang out with their friends. Three of the most common plants cultivated by horticultural indians were Corn, Beans and Squash, the trinity, and not just because they taste good together, they grow good together too. The Beans draw nitrogen from the air and pass it around, the Squash cover the ground and lock in moisture, and the Corn provides a mainframe of community support.

And no mechanized blades tearing up the soil's living microbiology, the same one shared by the inhabitants that ate from the local ecosystem. They experienced a closer connection to the Earth as it was worked by hand, influenced only by organic vibrations, ones that make plants grow far more naturally for sure. Science.

There's regenerative farming and intensive farming, and different plants like the different conditions. Regeneration promotes the evolution of life, with each generation of plant becoming stronger and more suited for their environment, as the ecosystem is allowed to continue eco-ing. It also sequesters greenhouse gasses. Intensification, on the other hand, is meant to recreate the conditions of natural disaster. Tearing up the land every year, violently disrupting plant and bug life, so that another less suited for the soil, non-native organism, can get its roots in edgewise. Every season the land is subjected to carbon-releasing trauma, intentionally, so that some foreign species can overpower the locals. These species never evolve either, permanently stuck in a position of human dependence, but we already knew that was part of monsanto's patented design.

And knowing what we know about the scientific properties of the vibration receptors in plants, that they physically resonate when we emit energy in their presence, don't you think that a gentle loving touch and a song as you sew, is going to produce a more connected food source than the diesel powered rumble of a mechanically separated seed pod? Indigenous cultures had vibrational relationships with the land and the plants, families were even connected to specific fruit trees sometimes, but the agriculturalist sees the sprouts of life only as another exploitable resource.

So who invented it then? Was it truly not harmful until the plow got involved? But how ethical was it to have a hundred slaves all hand-digging the garden? Not quite that easy I guess. So what could have started us down this vicious cycle of converting forests into farms in order to feed our ever-expanding overpopulation?

Numbers could have just outgrown the food supply I guess, although I don't know of another animal that's managed to pull that one off. A giant natural disaster could have wiped out fertile gathering grounds, that might get the food-to-mouth ratio a little uneven. Or maybe we became so skilled at hunting, that we wiped out the bigger game, which left us even hungrier. That's a pretty good theory, makes sense that as our numbers grew and skills increased, the planet's proliferation became perforated. Though, even if I had the money, I wouldn't buy into it. There were still millions of Buffalo among the large population of plain ol' indians, until we used that hunting expertise I was talking about, and slaughtered the most abundant source of protein that our country had ever seen. Though, there's plenty of room for Cows now.

Whatever the caging catalyst may have been, there's another side of it to ponder. The indigenous connection to spirit. To the Earth. To every living organism on the planet. How did someone lose this connection? To the point that they could justify enslaving their family, and all in the name of creating wealth and social hierarchy. I think there's a whole list of things that are throwing us out of harmony with the planet's hum, and the inferior vibrations of manufactured food is one of them, but it can't be both the cause and effect at the same time. And most of that other stuff didn't come around until well after the farm, so who started harassing our vibe?

I don't mean 'who' like a specific villain to blame, or race to hate, or gold digging aliens, I just mean 'how' did we evolve to a point where we denounced the entire natural system that endowed us with every single God-given miracle of life? Just a natural phenomena of random mutation? A malfunctioning emotional control center? Overloads of fear, sadness, or even compassion for a hungry relative? Aliens?

Agriculture doesn't even make sense in permanent ink. The calculator of efficiency shows us that it requires more calories per calorie, the further spread of famine, and it only seems to grow dependence on the cages of colonialism. Guess it does kinda make sense if you're among the ranks of the ruling class. Hungry people don't invent agriculture, it's simply too many calories expended as starvation approaches faster than the harvest, it's akin to inventing a parachute as you freefall towards your environmental impact. This lifeway of breaking the land, is designed to breed a broken population, and it is the control mechanism that we allowed the power structure to be built upon.

Or maybe this is just the way it is, the way it's supposed to be, maybe it's not even our fault? Not everything is all about us, remember? Maybe it's all just a part of a much larger planetary and celestial cycle of darkness and reawakening. The mechanics of metamorphosis. None of this really contradicts the heady indian prophecy stuff I believe in, so could be. Just some 'God's plan' kinda thing. An illusion of separation through the construct of ego. An incredible gift of experience. Or maybe it was some not so pleasant spiritual power. Maybe a devilish Snake sparked our path into duality, or at least gave us bad dinner recommendations.

Either way, we're waking back up. We're reconnecting. There have been mystics who held onto this connection with the Earth throughout all of time, but they have only been a select few along the way. The masses are becoming aware as we speak. You are, aren't you? Most everybody will be lagging behind us during the transition, but it will be happening at a more and more accelerated rate as it all starts snowballing. Think of it like technology advancements: We discovered fire and it revolutionized our way of life for two-million years. Then agriculture, the revolt that it was, changed the game for the next six-thousand years. Industry came along for a time clock of two-hundred and fifty years. The technological revolution claims that tech doubles every three years. And we've now reached the point that in a single day, a gun-crazed civilian can 3D print an undetectable AR-15. Business sure is booming.

So it used to be just a few spiritual warriors, then a few more, then a bigger wave, then they murdered, persecuted, burned and shunned a bunch, then generations started waking up, then Standing Rock woke me and fifteen thousand others up to a most important task at hand. And since then, I've seen it growing. I still don't quite understand it all, but I know I don't have to. I just keep trucking along, living in each moment the best I can, and not expecting too much else. I trust that my heart's gonna have me in exactly the right spot when it's time, and honestly, how could I possibly argue, when tomorrow it's got me heading off to Sun Dance?

### II. Sun Dance

If I had any doubts about my path,

being surrounded by the strongest people I know made it pretty obvious that I was doing something right, or that I should at least follow their lead until I figure it out.

*******

We geared up for the road, three car caravan, three oil burners to get us across the country for a sacred prayer ceremony, at least one of them was a hybrid, but still. Packed a cooler full of fresh picked snacks, always the chef, and sung an Abenaki protection song as we smudged and prayed for our safe travel. Prayed to remember to walk in prayer, or to drive in prayer, to keep our heads calm and our hearts full of love, to remind ourselves why we were here, and to keep us living in a good way. Even if praying ain't quite your thing, taking a moment to verbalize your intentions in the world and the ways in which you can progress your own internal evolution, is probably not likely to have too much negative impact on your daily.

Leela and I rode in her car, she was continuing west after ceremony, which contributed to the inflation of tires on the road. We connected in a big way, each sharing stories of similar transformation and excitement about the future, def meant to be companions for the three day drive. Like I'd expect anything less.

We talked about my growing belief in the telepathic telegraphs of a global communication system. She dug it. Mainly because she had already experienced it. We were talking about the science of plants, and how they communicate through electrical impulses, like us, except that they can listen without the need for the incessant babble that we insist upon. I already knew about this long time scientific knowledge, plants are alive and we know it, but she had actually had a conversation with one. Freakin hippies. Well, not really a conversation, more of a scolding really.

Leela had found a relationship with the spiritual side of the universe many years before Standing Rock. She'd been on this path for a while. But she was still young, and still had some youth to be reckless with, even though she had been awakened, it was still tempting to sleep in. Then, plain as day, one of the plants she was tending, spoke to her. Like, out loud and in english. Out loud in her head at least, or her heart, but direct and to the point, "What are you doing with yourself?"

That's a pretty loaded question. In what capacity? Not that it matters, I don't know much about any of it, but she knew exactly what it meant. It was meant for her. It resonated her insides as an overwhelming feeling of connection. So much more than just the words, but actual words too, and she knew exactly what they meant. She already knew that she was straying from the path a bit, allowing herself to grow complacent even though she knew that there was more important work to be done, just needed a little nudge from an older sister is all. And through an infinitely complex web of circumstances (as are all water protector backstories), following her intuition brought her halfway across the country to save the world, and to save herself, and here we go again.

We mainly just talked to each other though, such a good time, as do my fated excursions to the dakotas often work out. Heady star stuff, her experience living on the poverty stricken rez, and of course a good dose of old indian prophecies. Like the Hopi's 'myth' of a new era, a new abundant garden utopia, everything you could ever desire, just like in the cartoons. They aren't even too vague about the deets, basically, arizona is going to be an awesome island and the rest of it will sink like Waterworld. Noted.

And there's the bit about mankind having a choice to make, to return to a natural way of life, or to continue down the technology spiral until the Earth flips the switch for good. And that same pictorial prophecy, the one that's thousands of years old, included airplanes and the atomic bomb, guns, trains, long haired youth confusing their parents as they learn the indian ways, oil in the ocean, the first two world wars, and the next.

There's also themes that pop up repeatedly throughout the passed down stories of many indigenous peoples around the world. The Eagle. The Condor. What the Eagle means to the natives of north america, the Condor represents to our southern hemisphered counterparts, and they've been separated for a long time. Though each culture makes reference to the other's totem, a sure sign that they once shared airspace, but now they are separated by a growing wall of madness. And, also, it's probably worth pointing out the many, many, many stories about the Condor people and the Eagle people being reunited as we transition into the next chapter.

*******

Buckle up. Cornfields for days. Rode through nebraska on nebraska day. The Corn parade. Best burrito in the state, plus a young couple thought that we were with the band, a reckless looking crew no doubt.

More Corn. Everywhere I could see. And then we passed a dead Deer. Poor guy. :( Where was he even going? No woods as far as the eye can see. Strings of barbed wire composed every corridor. And this dude, left without a de-fence mechanism, as he's locked into this Bowie-less labyrinth of modern day maize, not that it would ever hold up without him. Good luck convincing me that this fatality isn't at the leather clad hands of the fence contractor. Unless he just ate too much of a toxically modified lab-grown ear.

I swear that I'm not here to drag Corn through the mud, again, but it's hard to paint a complete picture without at least mentioning a few kernels of the truth. That Deer wasn't the only soul caught up in that cornfield, just imagine being a tiny little field Mouse who never travels far from home, and then that home's mowed over to make room for a Corn factory. No big, at least it's edible, somewhat. So Corn's what's for dinner, especially in america's poorer communities.

But kellogg's taught me that Corn flakes were healthy, so I'm not too worried about it, even if flaking Corn requires high heat extrusion, which destroys all nutrients, fatty acids, and even the chemical vitamins they added to the box top. Fortified with irony, is the bit about the laboratory Rats on a cereal diet, who actually lived longer when they consumed the cardboard box instead of the contents. And the last time I pretended to be a writer, I went over and over the caveats of corn-feeding cattle, and how it empowers E. Coli to enter the bowel stream. Oh, and an all Corn diet has been shown to cause cannibalistic diarrheal death.

In france, it's not the field Mice, it's the field Hamsters, wild Hamsters that aren't received as cute and cuddly by the farmers that 'own' their homeland. And then they started eating their young. Displayed a complete lack of maternal instincts. And only in the cornfields. But that's whatever really, they're probably just not as evolved to eat Corn as we are, sometimes we have to sacrifice another's young in the name of mindless expansion. Progress. Except that we also get deathly ill if over-consumed by Corn.

Pellagra, a crippling disease of stomach sickness and skin rash, followed by hallucinations, paranoia, and depression. Insanity. And death. A hundred years ago it was an epidemic, especially in my gritty south, and mainly in lower economic communities. Forty percent mortality rate. Hospital turned away patients and special "pellagrasoriums" were opened to quarantine the ill. Doctors knew that it was linked to Corn consumption. But how?

Time for some experimenting, just gotta find some willing test subjects. Ah, why don't we just use prisoners? They're not real people anyway. So we cornfed a cellblock, and surprise surprise, pellagra. A few science things later, and we figured out that Corn binds niacin, or vitamin B3, which stops the body from absorbing it. Which stops production of some essential amino acids. Which makes you real sick. But no worries, we don't even have to consider the absurd possibility of lowering our intake of a crippling crop, just take a B3 pill and you'll be good to go. Or use the passed down traditional methods of preparing the Corn, which use lime to break open the niacin. Or build an entire civilization on destroying the ecosystem, to plant a poisonous produce that keeps us sickly dependent on your western medicine, and too tired to think about an alternative.

*******

Guess an alternative route for Bambi was no longer an option though. An endless grid of Corn cages that becomes even more confusing as you eat your way through the maize. But even if the Corn wasn't there, say if maybe the post-apocalyptic survivors realized the reality of raising cane, those fences would still be cutting off an entire world from our precious planet. If the collapse happens tomorrow, an end to the jenga tower of destruction that we've 'dr. seussed' together, then it's nice to think about the return of the great species we've almost taken out of the game completely. Like the Buffalo. Without man to interfere in their livelihood, we should expect to see the return of great herds across the plains. But there's still a fence in the way. Millions of them. We had over six million miles back in the 1800s, doesn't take much to extrapolate our exponential expansion from there. We may not be around to do the mending, but it'll be a few years before they return to the dust of the Earth.

So I'm gonna start cutting them. Definitely in the scenario of a capitalistic cataclysm, I'm a hundred percent gonna be walking the Earth with a pair of bolt cutters, removing the sanctions of interspecies travel is one of the most crucial components of unbuilding Eden.

But what can we do about it now? You mean besides waking up all of humanity to the destruction we've plowed over? Assuming that we can't get through to the megacorporations that contain our crops, too caught up on cost to consider another's right of way, I say we just cut down the congestion ourselves. Let's start taking down fences. Like, legit guerrilla style covert cage deconstruction.

We already covered the caveats of freeing our four-legged family, but I doubt that letting Corn off the cob could possibly cause any more harm than it already has. Is the razor wire there for our safety or theirs? I always get confused by that one, especially when it seems to be primarily protecting profit. Why fence in a five mile wide Corn orchard? Hopefully they've not mutated to the point of escaping.

Guess it keeps out whatever creatures have managed to survive the agricide. Good thing too, I'd imagine they're hungry since there's no longer a lush landscape of libation, but could a few Deer possibly eat more profit than it costs to maintain the fence? So, I guess they must be worried about people. Corn hustlers. Members of their own species who are also struggling with not going hungry. Good God I hope they're not eating all that Corn.

I mean those fences were no joke, video surveillance and maybe even a few hidden dapl cops. So what if I cut a few links? If I figure out the migration path of least resistance, maybe right where the dead Deer was migrating, and just cut out a section. I want to cut it all down of course, and in due time, but my guess is that they might not be too keen on that one. But are they keen enough to notice a single breach? Some were high tech, possibly equipped with an electrical continuity tester, but there was plenty of old school barbed wire to go around. How long could a missing link go unnoticed?

We'll assume they regularly monitor this type of thing, but if we remove the evidence, will they really catch an anomaly in a drive-by? Or what if we replaced the barbed wire with a gray string? An illusion of fencing, but easily escapable by inadvertent inmates. They'd eventually catch on, some would fix it, others might not mind enough to mend, and then there's those who upgrade their fence systems with cameras and guns. Not that we're above removing razor wire at gunpoint, though it might be tougher when we come back for round two. Maybe my solo snipping only tipped my hand, but if the other hand held a more concerted effort of widespread fence removal, perhaps we could hit them before they saw it coming on their FenceCam3000.

*******

Rosebud Indian Reservation, south dakota, home of the Sicangu Oyate. Good to be back in indian country, though Standing Rock could hardly count as a true reservation experience. All I had known was beauty and love, but the reality of the rez is poverty, depression and addiction, aka, oppression. Far from the romanticized disney dreamworld assumed by a majority of the colonized, within minutes of entering this supposedly sovereign nation, I couldn't help but feel the pain and sadness of a broken people.

It's messed up out there, but also the most spiritually filling place I've ever known. We may have sentenced a people to being forgotten, but they are home, they are a part of it, they are indigenous to a place, they eat and breathe the energy of their ancestors buried beneath their feet, and they are living piece of their living planet.

And now, after a three day journey, I was living it. We rolled into a rez gas station with a hint of frybread in the air, and as we pulled into a parking spot, I made eye contact with two of my very closest family members. They had also just arrived, at the exact same time as us, though they had only been traveling from nearby north dakota. They had been back at Standing Rock, camping out and cleaning up whatever debris the national guard had left behind. So Cool. We hugged and cried and stuff, such an incredible feeling to be reunited after such a life changing adventure, but suck it up, we got stuff to do.

We rolled into the Sun Dance grounds and stopped by the cook shack to unload some groceries we'd picked up on the way. We walked into a circle of ten or so, and I immediately locked eyes with another bestie, and then a long intense hug as she worked through the confusion of actually seeing me here.

I disappeared after camp. During it actually. I'd been off-grid. Off the facebook. (In fact, I recently saw my FB year in review - "Dude, where are you?", memes of Where's Waldo, a bunch of new water protecting friends, a quick post to confirm my aliveness, and then a link to my first book. What a year.) My profile was the least expected to appear, although she had also been mia, perhaps a correlation between our disconnected connection to following our hearts, and a return to ceremony in such a big way.

A lot of people were lost after camp. We'd found this incredible meaning to our lives, a real sense of purpose that pushed us to be the best we could be, and then it was over. I knew it wasn't over, it had just begun, and then I left with a dozen of our strongest to begin a new life. But what about those that didn't have that support system? Those forced to re-assimilate into a world that they knew to be deadly. Surrounded by family and friends that don't get it, it really was a "had to be there" kinda thing, and then pressured back into the capitalism machine and the constant reminders of death on their live feeds. And even those I escaped with didn't have the easiest time, I was lucky to have been called to write, I felt anxiety any moment that I wasn't, and it eased my heart to know that I was doing my duty of effecting change. So without that, I might have gotten lost in the mix too. But I stayed in prayer. Stayed focused. Stayed committed to inspiring a new way of relating to Unci Maka. And now I'm at the most sacred prayer ceremony with my closest comrades. Knock it if you want, but I think I'll keep on praying.

*******

The circle held a few more reunions, including one of my closest spiritual mentors from camp, and his spiritual leader, Harvey, the Sun Dance chief. I handed him a pouch of Tobacco, a customary gift to someone holding ceremony, and I offered up my services in the kitchen. His wife, Beth, chimed in that she normally held it down in here, but she was out of commission with a hurt something or other, so heck yeah, get to work buddy.

The cook shack was a fifteen by thirty wooden building, a kitchen that as of this morning, had neither power nor water, working on it. Soon I would see another of my spiritual guides put some love into the breaker box, and let there be light. And then, the next day, another of the people who helped bring me to spirit, got the well pump working and mni wiconi. So this is for real. All of the men who played an integral role in sparking my spiritual spiral, everyone that had ever poured a lodge for me, was here at Sun Dance, with their spiritual leader, who is now my spiritual leader. Good thing I can cook.

I went to set up camp, Ben had his tipi almost up, some other Rosebuddies over there, looks like the spot for me. Don't have a tent or anything, left my last one buried in the snow, plus I'm traveling pretty light these days. I left a bag of stuff at the farm, lighten my load before heading into the unknown, figured I didn't need purple cords at a prayer circle, or my chess board (mistake), or a few other choice items that will make a nice score once we're in survival mode. Just the clothes on my back, a pair of shorts for sweat, a knife, a cup, the laptop, a stack of notebooks wrapped in a red prayer cloth, and a piece of rope to tie it all together. And my pillow.

That's it. All I need. I still had other stuff in storage, but I've since gone through it and given it all away too. I don't need a bunch of material things weighing me down. The less I have, the richer my experience. I also understand that I'm taking it pretty far. Plenty of people lead lives of minimal means and still retain a few creature comforts, like a change of clothes, and everyone's path is different, mine just so happens to include a complete trust in the universe to take care of me along the journey. Surely sounds selfish to the skeptic, depending on the kindness of others instead of joining a demolition crew in the real world, and wildly irresponsible to stumble through life unprepared. Of course, it's precisely my lack of planning that has led me here, and my homie has an extra tent for their brother, wopila tanka.

*******

The Sun Dance grounds cover a few acres, the cook shack was the only permanent structure, and everything else was getting put together as we speak. A crew was up the hill assembling the arbor, a huge shaded rig that enveloped the Sun Dance circle. Built with wooden posts and covered with Pine boughs, and then a shelter on the west side for the dancers to recuperate between rounds. This was going to be intense for them, maybe for all of us, but definitely for them.

The Sun Dance is a sixteen day ceremony, composed of four sections of four days each. Four being a sacred number, four directions, four doors in a sweat, four ages of man, four phases of life, four seasons, and four ninja Turtles. We were actually already in the first phase, hembleciya, and all Sun Dancers must go up on the hill before the main event. They could have gone earlier, like Ben and Charlie, or they could go on their vision quest here in the days leading up to ceremony. It would prepare them for the journey ahead, and then we would have four days of purification, a chance to acclimate to the land and wash any remaining civilization off of us, a daily sweat, and plenty of sweating to do as we finished up preparations for...

The Sun Dance. Four days of intense praying. I guess I'm ready? And finally another four days of purification, a chance to stay in our prayer circle, in the bubble of good energy, allowing the positive vibes to really sink in before venturing out into that other world of filth. Who knows what'll happen after all that? I'm a free agent. Done with the book, except maybe another edit or two, and reunited with so many close allies. I could really end up heading in any direction. Fun.

*******

Then we had yet another reunion. On the back side of the Sun Dance grounds was the camp of a certain school bus full of a tipi making family, the Erenbrooks. I'd only briefly met them at camp, never really hung out, and after a few minutes they started to remember our brief interactions. How could this whole family have survived the winter out there without making friends with the chef? They cooked for themselves, as did a few of the families that I did manage to get close to, because they understood the importance of good food.

Now hold on, don't get riled up for my sake, they weren't saying my food didn't taste good, as if, but they knew the quality of the inferior foods we had stockpiled. Some really heady and healthy stuff in there, but mainly packaged and processed and modified products of the american dream of agrinomic suicide. Or the native nightmare of minimal rations and commodity beef.

And they cooked on an open fire whenever they could, my kinda bus hippies for sure. They prefer to sleep in the tipi, but the bus is fully capable of housing them all, plus room for a few guests to have a cup of tea. Oh yeah, and there were seven of them. Mom, dad, and then a tipiful ranging from toddler to tween, a new generation of water protectors. The future of our planet.

They'd been living in indian country ever since camp, fully immersed in both the traditional ways, and the modern struggle on the rez. Finding clean food was one of the big ones. And water. Funny that I was coming from a place of the clearest water and realest foods, and now that I'm in the land of the most connected to the Earth, at a most sacred prayer ceremony, it's back to eating garbage. Actually, that's not really that funny at all.

Only a convenient store in Rosebud, the closest grocery store twenty miles away, and good luck finding anything organic. Then there's the commods, commodities, the minimal provisions that our government agreed to give them after we destroyed their entire way of life. This is not quality stuff, a clear level below generic, but exactly what I would expect the meals to look like in a POW camp. Considering the standards that they feed us by, I'd hate to see their official policies of adequate nutrition for a broken population of enemies of the state.

I can't imagine that it felt too natural to depend on government farmies for food, when the dakota plains you grew up in were one of the most biodiverse regions on the continent. Medicines growing everywhere, Sage, Rose Hips, Echinacea, Mullein, but tons of actual edibles too. Purple Potatoes, a turnip-like veg called a Timpsila, Plums, Grapes, Choke Cherries, Buffalo Berries, and so much other stuff that the local menu could hardly be called plain. It's not that they're all gone, though the fences and farming and ranching that was pushed on these people did greatly reduce the size and quality of gathering grounds, it's more like they've forgotten their way of life as they were forced to assimilate or die.

Well, we did reserve them a place to exist however they want, is it really our fault if they don't live long and prosper? Yes. Sure, we saved them a spot, of the most infertile land, but we didn't exactly just hand over they keys either. We still control the reservations. They are concentration camps. Period. We set the policies of land distribution, which only fracture the land further with every passing generation. We control their police, the BIA, Bureau of Indian Affairs, a united states government agency started by the war department. We poison their food. We poison their water. We continuously tighten the borders around them as we supply their depression with alcohol and meth. And that's just the basics.

Luckily I'm pretty good at working with what I got, and praying over processed produce, plus I wasn't nearly alone in the kitchen. I wasn't even in charge, thank God, Leela was gonna handle all that stuff, I just had to cook dinner. It was suggested at one point that I could do breakfast, luckily in my absence, a Rosebuddy who knew the deal spoke up for me, "He's really more of a dinner and late-night snack kinda guy, he'll do whatever you need, but that's where he really belongs." Nice. And the strangest thing - She wanted to plan out the menu, like, with recipes and stuff, and even wanted to write them down. What? Well, that just takes all the fun out of it. And the magic. Then a mention of a schedule, no indian time, freaking colonizers. But I was in the zone, humility and patience kicking, I got this. Plus, Beth loved me, especially after dinner.

The cook shack was the place to hang out, the late-night chill spot, we may have been here to pray, but we still know how to have a good time. The energy was pretty poppin between all of us water protectors, a much anticipated day of reunion for sure, but we also needed to remember where we were at. Once again guests of the Lakota, but this time not here to help them, instead here for the sacred honor of attending Sun Dance. So we should watch ourselves, our energy together can get out of hand at times, a magic magnetism between this band of merry misfits, but possibly a bit overwhelming to someone who has been coming to this Sun Dance forever and finds the cook shack overrun with hippies. It all felt good, and we were readily accepted into the family, but I've overstayed my welcome enough to know how to avoid it.

And then, after about two minutes of deliberation, and the assumption that it was inevitable anyway, I went for it. Yep. Rolled a smoke. Did I think I could actually survive a trip to the rez and not pick 'em back up? C'mon.

Next day, purification began, really just more of the same preparating, more people showed up, and after dinner we sweat. Four sweat lodges, one in each direction around a giant stone fire pit. We sweat in the east-facing inipi, all of them being much larger than the six-person lodge at the farm. I was pumped. For some water protectors, this was their first return to ceremony since camp, hate it for them, but glad they're here now. I had been in a non-stop lodge though, getting deep in prayer and picking up songs. The lodges at camp had been life changing, but were generally filled with newbies and just a couple of strong singers. And then at Ben's we sweat with our hearts, but not always in key. Here though, ceremony filled with Sun Dancers who have been singing these prayers for a lifetime, next level stuff for sure. Oh, so that's how they're supposed to sound.

*******

The cook shack was outfitted with a couple of dilapidated ovens, the two of them almost combined to make one, then Beth offered up cooking on the fire out back. I think it may have been intimidating to some of the crew, cooking for a couple hundred on a campfire, but you know I was all about it. We had a big metal grate kinda thing, half inch thick bars running in one direction, wide enough for a bunch of big pots and stuff, yet another iron cage to contain our flame. There was a whole new level of finesse with this setup, rotating pots and stoking the fire, though I do think that Ben's wood stove had given me a leg up.

So, cooking directly on the fire, why that must be the ultimate in living with the land. But I've spent all this time thinking about cleaner ways to cook, you mean I could have just built a fire? Yeah. Now, it's not necessarily the cleanest method, it can actually be quite messy, in fact. You're sitting around in the dirt and constantly digging in the coals, though I'd probably be doing that anyway. The pots gets hella charred up, at least they did with whatever black soot Pine logs we managed to scrape up, and then the black soot gets all over your pants as you try to move a massive pot of goulash. No worries, not like they're my only pants or anything, and I bet if it rains it'll wash it all down.

Oh, the rain, guess that might dampen our fire pit kitchen, huh? I think that's the biggest downside, a downpour, or maybe a forty below lightening blizzard. So could we build a shelter kinda thing? Perhaps, might get smokey though, so maybe we put the fire in a metal box and pipe the smoke outside. Nope, yep, think that one's already been invented. Though, the most primitive of technologic tipis is perfectly designed to house an open flame, go figure.

*******

So I was sitting by the fire, grilling some Butternuts and some meat or another, when all of a sudden I hear the motion of commotion coming from the cook shack. I jump up to see a mob of people escorting out an uninvited guest. Exclusive indeed. He'd even taken to hiding under the shack to evade detection. Or maybe he'd been living there since last year. Either way, he had more rattles than a mariachi band.

Yeah, a big long Rattlesnake shot out from under the kitchen, scared a few, but we're a family of warriors. A brother started to handle it, then a hippie water protector shout of, "Don't kill him!" I was with her, but I was a guest intent on not overstepping, and I'd already wrestled with the ethics of murder to protect our own in the last chapter. He snatched it up real quicklike, by the tail of eight rattles, and slung it through the air in a full 360, until his neck broke against the ground with a thunderous snap. Sad for sure, but not for long. I was ready for this, been preparing for this precise moment, it's time. "I want the rattle" over here, "I want the skin" over there, well, I just wanted the meat.

We threw him in a bucket, managed to get his head cut off without a postmortem nibble, and then a couple of us headed into the woods to field dress our first rattlesnake. This is crazy, it's the exact thing I've been thinking about and planning on doing, and now I've witnessed just how easy the hunt can go. They do say that Sun Dance will bring some stuff up from inside, force you to face some back issues, but this is a little uncanny.

They were definitely right about Sun Dance bringing forth things that you didn't even know were weighing on your heart. I saw it over and over, and felt it a few times too. We were getting deep in prayer. As the ceremony progressed, you could feel the energy building. The dancers were gonna struggle through their own demons as they prayed for the people, but the people would be sure to feel it too. We were praying, and I know that we all do it in our own way, but when I pray, I break myself down. I get real honest with myself. Get behind that ego. Have to. Through this conversation of my heart, I find things that have been holding me back, and I pray for the chance to work on them. To heal. I'm not praying for some magic flying dude to snap his fingers and fix me, nope, this is something I have to do for myself, and it's a lot of work, so I just pray that I learn my lessons in a good way.

"Tunkasila, onsimala, have pity on me, please help me to see the ways I can become a better me, and show me how I can strengthen my heart. Help me to learn the lessons the first time, without too much struggle. Help me to see and grow, not deny and ignore. I know this is a hard road, and I learn the biggest lessons through adversity, but please help me to stay focused and learn them in a good way."

I pray to Tunkasila, our ancestors; or maybe to Unci Maka, Grandmother Earth; or even the Great Mystery, Wakan Tanka, the ultimate energy of everything that ever was, as it makes up all that is and ever will be; but you could say the same self-reflective things to the mirror and you'd push yourself to become a better you. It's not easy though. I prayed for humility all winter, and got continual lessons, which in all honesty weren't even that difficult, but you have to be open to them. I have to keep praying for it though, keep my heart focused on the virtue that is so important to me, yet so easily misplaced. And it's probably about time for a new one.

The twelve Lakota virtues: humility, perseverance, respect, honor, love, sacrifice, truth, compassion, bravery, fortitude, generosity and wisdom. Somewhat similar to the boy scout law of my youth, which makes sense once you find out that the boy scouts of america were created by a Lakota man.

Ohiyesa, or we knew him as Charles Eastman, wrote the handbook on scouting as a way to curb the trend he was seeing, young Lakota men were losing their traditional skills as colonization was creeping in. Of course, the colonizers took that too, removed the bits that were a little too indian for them, kept the cool native names for stuff, and tweaked the twelve virtues. Now we're expected to be obedient and fiscally responsible while we serve God and country, definitely the makings of a proud anglo-american.

*******

Proud to be an american. Why? Because it's the greatest country in the world. Why? Well, it's the only one I've been to, or want to for that matter. Rock, flag and Eagle. So, are you proud of the millions of senseless murders your country has committed for nothing more than greed? I don't wanna talk about that kinda stuff, that's in the past anyway, I'm proud to be an american right now. "Not talking about it", is exactly what has enabled your God-blessed country to continue the genocide which is absolutely still going on today, both in this country and abroad. "Not talking about it", is only one degree away from pulling the trigger yourself. Accessory to murder.

*******

My next lesson found me like a needle in a hayfield. I was between my borrowed tent and a friend's, stitching up the first tear in my favorite (and only) brown cords. These are totally my post-apocalyptic fence cutting pants, durable, warm, and the right color brown hides the dirt while providing a stylish Earth tone swagger. Then I dropped the needle, shifted, and it was gone. A tiny needle literally lost in the grass and hay, and right were we would be barefoot the most, though neither of us hardly wear shoes anywhere else either.

I looked and looked, how could I have been so careless with such a tiny tool? And sharp? I stayed patient, and the word 'mindfulness' came to mind as I ran my fingers through the grass. Pay attention. Be aware. Think before you act. That's what I thought it meant at least, and it does, but there's a whole other deeper meaning that just so happens to be one of the very things I've been working on.

Mindfulness - a mental state achieved by focusing on the present moment. Living in the now. So that was pretty cool that I started praying for mindfulness before I even knew what it meant, and that it was already something I was trying to develop in myself. It was still relevant too. Had I been properly focused on the moment, I probably would have avoided a record of needle dropping. So that's my new thing, mindfulness, gonna keep praying for it, but I can't get too upset when the lessons come. This is not an easy road. There is hard work to be done. The most I can hope for, is that I learn my lessons the first time, that I pay attention, and that I don't squander the opportunity to grow in the moment. Basically, I should be mindful.

Well, that's not even on the top twelve list, certainly still a winner, but I didn't really pick it out myself anyway. Don't know where humility had come from either, just rolled off the tongue as I was speaking from the heart, and that basically changed my entire life, so I'm thinking I'll see where this whole mindfulness thing takes me. Still no needle though, took a break for some three-day-old frybread, and as I took a bite, I found it. Perhaps frybread actually does hold the secrets of the universe.

*******

Wonder if it's got any tips on butchering a snake, cause I sure don't. We figured we could figure it out, water protectors can do basically anything, so the two of us got to work with the help of Marcus, an eleven year old who had been kicking it with me by the fire. Pretty easy really, I held up the decapitated end, and she pulled the skin off like a sock as she used my grandfather's knife to peel it back like a sticker. I think you can do it in one swift yank, but she was being extra cautious not to damage the skin, that's what she was keeping out of the deal. I just wanted the Snake steaks.

Marcus was a good peanut gallery as we fumbled our way through it, and had solid advice, the kid had street smarts far beyond those under the shelter of suburbia. You have to grow up a little quicker when you live in a country literally built on and against everything that you are. Kid was eleven, and telling us that he's got to make the decision in the next week or two, whether to join a gang or not. Like a real deal guns-a-blazing legit gang, eleven, gotta look out for his block and for his family. Probably not too shocking to a survivor of an inner city childhood, but I grew up in the country and was busy ninja turtling when I was his age.

Men are taught to be tough, to suck it up, and you better not cry. And indian men are no exception, especially with a bloodline of being fierce competitors, but we've pushed them into boxes with no outlet for their fire. No longer free to ride it out on the hunt, we've left few options of release other than a bottle or a bar fight, which makes it that much easier to lock away a generation's worth of ancestral trauma.

Sentenced to a world of suppression, for many, the only escape seems to be resigning from rez life altogether. Suicide is super prevalent among the youth of the native community. Marcus just had a classmate fall victim to it, which had led to another following closely behind. In fact, I heard about seven suicides in the few weeks I was in Rosebud, teenage suicides, or younger.

Most teenagers feel like the world is against them, for indians, it's true. On the rez you're living with all the oppression of the adults, plus you gotta watch them lose all hope and drink away the pain. And you're young, the digital generation, the world is at your fingertips, but it's only telling you that you don't belong. And off the rez you get that even more, the cities that neighbor these reservations are fraught with racism and bigotry, but maybe that's just the entire state of south dakota.

There are certainly more progressive parts of the world, where a native can blend right in with a majority made of minorities, as they login to colonization and build a life for themselves. They can escape the prison camp and hide out in the real world, that plastic world that has no bearing on reality when you have a genetic connection to the Earth in your heart. So those that get away, get educated and cultured and colonized and make those dollar bills ya'll, and some even come back and use their experience to better the life of others on the rez, but if everyone who has a chance just cuts and runs, who's that leave in the dust? The rez gets even more concentrated with oppression, an increasingly weakened community falls apart, and now it's super easy for an oil company to roll in and take whatever they want. And that's exactly what they're doing.

Standing Rock was one thing, a pretty big one thing, but just the tip. The oil company really did roll in and take whatever they wanted, with a tank, they assumed the broken tribe couldn't put up much of a fight, and only with back-up were they able to. And now, word on the street is that there's a new oil man in town, this time they're trading fat checks for mineral rights, and to an uneducated alcoholic native on food stamps, it's gonna be hard to turn down the zeros.

Man, get 'em drunk and take their stuff, that's so shady, and not at all an original idea. Two weeks before signing the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851, we gave them a bunch of barrels of rum, very gracious indeed. They of course had no tolerance, yet gorged themselves at the insistence of the pushers, then we cut them off right before treaty day, and used their monster hangover and rapid alcohol dependency as leverage in negotiations. How about we're gonna take an extra sacred hill or two, in exchange for a barrel of rum? Sounds like a yo ho ho pirate's life to me, and I bet a barrel of rum would buy a bit of oil rights still today as well.

Not all natives are water protectors, and not all of them have their basic needs met daily, so how hard is it gonna be to give them a fraction of what you'd give a white guy, in exchange for fracking their fraction of family land? It's not gonna take much. And one spill takes out the whole reservation. And they always spill.

*******

So what's all this about fractions and decimation? The General Allotment Act of 1887, meant to aid in civilizing the indians, bring them up out of the poverty of communal living and dirt worshipping, plus it was gonna free up a bunch of land for white settlement. So, win/win, right?

The US gov't surveyed the land and allotted parcels to native families, something like 160 acres each, seems like a lot compared to the 50 that I grew up on, but I guess I wasn't exactly hunting and gathering for an extended family either. Closing in their world around them left plenty of crop and cattle land up for grabs, I've seen the newspapers advertising "indian land" pretty matter-of-factly. Unfairly good marketing I guess, we colonized 90 million acres with a single campaign.

All this is blah blah blah though, heard it before, our country is founded on genocide and built on slavery, we took a bunch of land and settled for america, broken record dude, what other guilt trips you got?

Well, the new land parcels still weren't privately owned like with the white folk, the indians were deemed incompetent to hold title, so it all stayed under trust, overseen by us of course. The families could use the land, but had no right to sell or lease it when it proved inadequate to support their dying way of life. Luckily, we built them an escape hatch, after a few decades of lost traditions, they were allowed to take the land out of trust. They could now become US citizens, with the private property of individualism, and now they could sell even more land to the whites at bottom dollar. Or don't sell, doesn't matter to us, now that you're a citizen with all that 'property', we're gonna tax you for it. So unless there happens to be a money tree on your measly 160, it's gonna be our 160 soon enough.

That's still kinda old news though, let's try to see how the government's current control of this supposedly sovereign nation is designed to keep the land as broken as the people. It wasn't enough for us to divvy up their home as we saw fit, we went ahead and wrote the rules about how they could inherit the Earth. When the leader of your family passes on to the spirit world, the next generation all get an even cut. Sounds pretty fair and square on paper in this foreign language of english. Everybody gets their own piece of land, and their own piece of paper claiming that they are in charge, kinda, and that's what the new america is all about.

So say there were four kids, four's a good number, and now they each have forty acres, cool, except that they have a family just as big as the last generation. And then they die. Now each of their four kids have paperwork on ten acres, and the same size family. Another round and we're trying to survive on less than three acres. Gotta start farming now, and fencing, but at some point this division of hard labor has to stop. We'll just assign control of the parcel to all four of the next generation, and then all sixteen of the next. Super fair, they all get a say, but only with a unanimous vote from all sixteen can any decisions be made. Bet that happens all the time. In fact, that's precisely what the hubbub around Black Hoop Camp had been, eight of the nine family members supported us building a camp there, one didn't, probably coincidence that they were connected to the same corrupt tribal council that wanted us gone.

Sun Dance grounds were no exception, we were on Harvey's family land. He was steward of just a few acres normally, so he had to get a special permit for the Sun Dance, which allowed him another few acres and room for camping, on family land that wasn't even being used otherwise, and don't stay a day past the permit or the BIA will come knocking on your tipi.

Obviously this separation anxiety can't continue indefinitely, so the tribe has offered a buyback program. Is your small portion of an already small allotment of infertile polluted land unable to provide life for those living there? Well we'll give you a couple grand for it, more money than you've seen in, well, ever. Of course you have no experience managing money in a world of poverty, and it wasn't really that much to begin with, so now you're just as broke as before, but you're left without a place to live. Plus, there's that whole part about the tribal leadership being corrupt and probably buying up land just to lease it to dapl.

*******

And that's the rumor, now that there's an oversized oil infrastructure running through the rez, phase two will be the extraction of the last few drops of hope from a defeated land. I wouldn't even doubt if the first oil spill is intentional, just to perpetuate the downward spiral of poison and pain.

I run my fingers through the Earth, I talk to her, I cry for her. How can one of her children be so self-serving, that they can allow their mother to be so violently tortured in the name of some abstract concept of owning her? Everything and everyone here is a part of her, it just doesn't make sense to kill her in order to receive an early inheritance of mayhem.

These oil people know the cost of doing business, there are hundreds of unpublicized oil spills every year, just in the dakotas. People die so that you can drive your recreational vehicle. Oh yeah, never mind, this oil's going to china, while far more foreigners actually make the ultimate sacrifice to fill your tank. I know I'm harsh, we live in a society with no other choice, but when we choose to look the other way, we're no more prepared for the impending doom than those with their heads in the tarsands.

So now imagine what it feels like to be a kid again. The wonder, the possibility, the magic, especially if you were descended from those most connected to the mysteries of Mother Earth. In your blood, in your heart, and a lifetime of oral traditions that have deepened your desire to live in a good way. Uncorrupted by the disconnection of man, a heart that knows only innocence and unconditional love, but you better forget all that stuff real quick, this ain't no disney fairy tale, this is the rez, son.

People will tell you that the only way to survive is to escape the rez, others will worry that your departure will only weaken the community further, the duality of love vs real life tears you apart, as you watch your elders crumble under the pressures of the oppressive state of poverty. You don't remember a time where eating dinner was a guarantee. Or having a sober parent. You do manage to hang onto the hopelessness of a people resigned to forgetting their way of life, as they numb themselves to their own status - prisoners of war. A war against the planet. A battle for your homeland, for your people, for your dear dying mother, but as far as you can see, your side has given up. The troops aren't gearing up for round two, they just ordered a second round.

It may be tough to break out, but at least this generation has a window to what is beyond the walls of the camp. Of course, the only portrayals of your people within the digital dream, are those of an extinct band of savages, and often the evil enemies of the courageous colonizers. Then you realize the ramifications of disney's scantily clad indian princess, who in reality was kidnapped and raped, and as a generation reaches their hormonally imbalanced immaturity, they hang on to their ingrained fantasy of capturing their own Pocahontas. The colonizers fetishized the native female, quite blatantly, and now a race of people who make up less than one percent of the population of their homeland, account for 25% of the missing and murdered women of our great country. This is despicably appalling, yet we applaud every rendition of ethnically cleansed cartoonery that crosses the big screen. And then they drive onto the broken reservation and flash a glimmer of hope to those with no way out, and it's apparent that the neighboring police aren't going to investigate some missing indian girl between their kkk meetings, so now it's up to the BIA, who have no jurisdiction outside of the rez, plus they're busy evicting people in prayer anyway.

And then top all this off with the discovery that your own personal footprint is contributing to the delinquency of your precious planet... What kind of future could we expect a young dreamer to manifest, if the only reality they've ever known is "No you can't?"

So what do you say to a young man faced with a fractured future? "Don't join the gang?" It's pretty naive for some privileged white dude to assume that'll save him. "Don't kill yourself?" Bet that'll do it, problem solved, next. It's pretty complex to be the white savior of a people whose problems I can't even begin to understand.

So I just talked to him. Listened. Didn't speak to him like a kid. He's not. And I shared the vision and mission of the water protectors, and the first hand knowledge I have about finding true purpose in life. I tried to inspire him to hang on to the love and optimism that he'd kept so far. It's not time to give up, it's time to wake up. He doesn't feel like he belongs in the world because the world is broken, but that is changing, we need you brother.

I think he'll be just fine though, it's a long road but he is strong, and he'll be even stronger after he Sun Dances. Yeah, this eleven year old was gonna dance for the first time, by far the youngest in the ritual, gonna be a life changing experience for sure. I know I haven't elaborated on the particulars of the ceremony yet, just know that this ain't your middle school prom, this is an ancient spiritual rite for the strongest of warriors. There's pain and struggle and humbling and blood and tears. Sacrifice. This is a hard road, but ultimately rewarding. Sun Dance is not just a few weeks a year, it is a way of life. A way to walk in prayer, a way to rely on the sacred chanupa and spiritual connection, instead of the bullet or the bottle. Marcus has made a four year commitment to Sun Dance, as do all the dancers. These will be a difficult four years for all the reasons, but he will have the power of prayer, the support of the people, and the strength to know that he can persevere. Plus, he was about to eat a Rattlesnake.

*******

We buried the poisoned head near the creek (some water protector I am), and fairly deep considering that it can still reflexively bite and kill for up to a day. Supposedly, as long as we remove the venom glands, he'll be safe for human consumption. Think I got 'em out of there.

In my head, when I'm cave dwelling alone in the jungle, grilling up a sweet baby Sidewinder, I just run a stick through its length and rotisserize that bad boy. Prob burnt and crispy, epic and cinematic, I'm all about it, but maybe not the best approach for sharing with the crew. Then I was given an inside tip, deep fry it. What? You're telling this southern boy that the best way to cook his fated fare is with his very culinary specialty? This is unreal. Deep fried Rattlesnake.

I cut it into two-inch sections and double breaded it with flour and cornmeal, got the oil hot on the fire pit, and tossed in my manifested menu. Certainly a mixed bag of initial reactions, the obligatory "ewws", but definitely some enthusiasts. Made sure Harvey got some, and Marcus, then I savored the last piece. Delicious. It was like eating the tiniest rack of ribs, ever, and then a pretty good sized chunk of diamond back strap. An entire Snake would certainly satiate me in a proper survival scenario. Mission success, one step closer to living with the land and not against it. Oh, and before you have to ask, yeah, it tastes like chicken.
How could I ever find the words to capture the magic of this moment?

*******

It's cool and all that I just fulfilled a personal goal of survival preparedness, no longer wondering if I'm actually ready to live, but now I gotta come up with something else to daydream about. Has to be a good one to top the last, not just another ground score, might as well go for broke. I'm getting me a Buffalo. Now that's an easy way out, said no one ever, except that I know the odds of actually crossing paths with a wild and free member of the Tatanka Oyate.

There are still 'wild' Bison around, like those in captivity at a few of our national parks. What? Well, some do get a little grain to supplement their shrinking gathering grounds, and it's probably even better quality than they give the indians for the same reason. Even the grain-free guys are certainly impacted by the humans driving through yellowstone, but that's miles away from the Buffalo ranch down the street.

The Bison are making a comeback, Bison farming is at least. People tout the boon to their population that us noble humans have selflessly aided in, but we've only increased our stock on the ownership of another. Plus, domesticated Buffalo have had tainted bloodlines ever since their original path crossed with the prodding cattle. A species meant to roam over vast expanses, but now confined to the cage of capitalism, looks like we have more in common than you'd think.

They're coming back though, in a big way, but I guess that's really the only way they do anything. At least that's the indian rumor, probably heard through a grounded ear or something, and the prophecies tell us of a day when the sacred Buffalo will once again fill the great plains. Hard to imagine that kind of comeback, there were millions and millions of them before the mass extermination, of indians. But this is obviously not a vision that will come to fruition within our current administration, this will only happen once we've begun the work of deconstructing our codestruction.

Now, if a fence melting meteor came through, clearing the land of both cage and cager, I could see a pretty rapid incline of Buffalo on the horizon. Even the east coast fakelo, given all the room in the world and a few years of solitude to re-assimilate, I could totally be barbecuing blue ridge Bison burgers for brunch. We know that our fences are gonna hinder the return of the Tatanka, at least until I get my team together, but I can't give them credit for eradicating not only this majestic creature, but an entire ecological way of life that was intimately connected to the herd.

Buffalo are nomads, following the food for a seasonal menu of foraged freshness. Massive Buffalo herds migrated, closely followed by Deer and Elk and that kinda stuff, and then a wave of even smaller creatures. But why would they all follow each other? Wouldn't it make more sense to split up? They don't follow the Bison because they're besties, they're actually not following them at all, they're running from us. "Us" in a pretty broad sense of the word, I mean all of the carnivores.

The Buffalo roam, predators pursue, that one is pretty basic. The entire Lakota way of life was built around traveling with the herds. A pack of primates trying to fancy a feast, but I bet we'd settle on the second string running back. I'm sure any animal that's hunting Buffalo, has also got a taste for the rest of his entourage. So the Buffalo migrate, we follow them with our stomachs, and as we move through the landscape, our wave of arrows nudge the other animals to follow suit. There are predators at all the different levels, so they jump on board to follow their food, also hunting smaller snacks, which effectively gathers the entire circle for this cyclical journey. Today's doplar radar would display this natural flow of energy much like a wind blown weather pattern across the face of our fluid planet.

But, was it really just us? C'mon. Everybody running from the two-leggeds? We haven't even been here that long, and might not be much longer, certainly this is bigger than the self-centered human genome. We like to think we're the ultimate top of the food chain, killing or caging anything that might prove otherwise, but at best, we're tied for the title in our weight class. And I'm just talking about Cats and Dogs. There's the large Cats, like Tigers and stuff, avid big game hunters, especially abroad. Capable of killing anything we could. Or us. Luckily they're not as involved in our parade, though I'm sure some Mountain Lions were up in the mix. And definitely Wolves. Right up front. Wolves are our equals, our peers, our brothers, our competition. We share the same slot in the circle of life. Even if I could rank humans supreme among most, there's no way to justify reigning over their parade.

Are you not buying this? That a wild dog is comparable to a perfect person? I guess knowing that you could murder it, or enslave it, gives you a little peace of mind, but a piece of a native's mind could never consider either. So what is our natural dynamic then? Well, we're both hunting the same food. That's the big one. Sure, the Wolf may not topple a Deer alone, but could you without a projectile? The Wolf is part of a pack, a hunting party, and who do you think catches more Rabbits? They are our competition. If there was only one Deer in the woods, whichever of us got to it first, would survive. Following the herds, there's probably a lot more to go around, and a lot more competition, but we also love our brothers and want them to partake in the feast.

So they eat the same food as us, does that really make them our equals? Maybe not, especially considering my breakfast of Beetles, but the Wolf is closer than you think. We can run beside each other on the hunt, although I bet they have us topped on top speed, but eventually the prairie dries up. And ices over. And we all get hungry. It's not hard to imagine a snowy scene of man vs Wolf, and once you do, it's easy to understand our parallel positions.

Straight up battle might be a toss-up, whoever gets the first lick in maybe, though I bet he comes out biting. Big human vs wimpy Wolf, finally a point for the home team. Big Wolf vs wimpy human, that's one I don't want to have to witness. Pack of Wolves vs any human, their preferred hunting method, and most efficient, and you'll be plenty to go around. Of course a pack of us could easily do the inverse. There's a few other scenarios, but they all fall pretty flat, seems our brains and thumbs are pretty even with their speed and jaws, attenuated by whatever environment we happen to be in.

We eat the same things, they can eat us, we can eat them. How again are we anything but equals? Brothers? Or is it enemies? Competition certainly, although the competitive markets of capitalism would never allow for another to enjoy people food. Ah... got it, we'll never have to hear about not being number one again, we don't compete with them, we'll capture them. Just like the missionaries did, we'll eradicate the elders, and kidnap some babies, breed out the biters, teach 'em how to work for us, take away their livelihood, and make them literally beg for a snack. Certainly no competition now, except in the Wheat based Dog food aisles.

Commoditize our food, commoditize our food's food, commoditize our competition, commoditize our competition's food, commoditize us. A complete food wallet chain consumed with human consumption. And destruction, as the processing plants demand of natural resources, far exceeds their output of anything nearing on natural.

*******

How about we forget about natural resources for a minute, like the actual term, the words, the phonetic representation for a concept that has no linguistic rooting in anything of this Earth. Let's look to a language evolved with the land, in-tune with Unci Maka and all of her babies. In Lakota, there is no word for 'nature.' In a world of symbiotic relationships evolved from the dawn of time, where we are clearly all related as we each play our part in this great mystery, it's not possible to differentiate humans from the web of life around them. It would seem absurd to any culture still living in harmony with the rest of everything they've ever known. So a natural resource? What's that?

Merriam-Webster dictionary - 'Industrial materials supplied by nature.' "Industrial materials?" What's that? Oh, I see, stuff for building things to build other things. Well I'm quite happy living in my tipi at the moment, but it's cool that this 'nature' thing just gives you stuff. And you say this is a 'cell phone,' something this small that takes lots and lots of these 'natural resources' to make, but now I can look up anything anywhere anytime, instead of letting life happen at its own pace. Well, I guess we could try looking up 'natural resources' on the google to test it out. 'Materials and substances such as minerals, forests, water, and fertile land that occur in nature and can be used for economic gain.'

Oh hey, now these are some words I know, see, there's not too much of a language barrier here. You're talking about Unci Maka, the planet, the Earth, our home, our mother. But what's 'economic gain?' Money? What's that? So it's these little scraps of paper, that everyone wants, because they can make anyone do anything for them at anytime? Neat, I guess? Don't see the point really, we already have everything we could ever want, but you do you, boo. I'm confused though, how do you use 'nature,' or what we know as Unci Maka, to make these paper scraps?

YOU DO WHAT!?!? You dig the minerals from my mother's veins? You murder entire villages of my brothers in the tree nation? You deplete and destroy the water of everything that has ever lived? And this fertile farmland? You put my mom in a cage, exploit her fertility, enslave her children, and force them all to produce food for your single species, which my mom was happy to have made for you in the first place? Why are you killing Unci Maka? For money? Those little paper things? How many paper scraps will it take to bring back our mother? She's the only thing we have.

How much money is our planet worth? Maybe if we stopped looking at everything as dollar signs, realized that the concept of 'natural resources' was simply a commodification of something that no one can ever own, maybe we'd look around and see that we already have everything that we could ever need.

I do it on a small personal scale, but on a deep level. I know I have what I need, to such a degree that I'll take off across the country with what I can carry, knowing that wherever I am, I'll always be with Unci Maka. Might not have everything I want, though living without expectations alleviates a lot of that, plus I'll get to see so much that I would never have known otherwise. I give up plenty of luxuries, but once I realized the true cost that others were having to pay for my convenience, it made me sick to imagine renewing my subscription to civilization.

I just want to disappear into the woods somewhere, build a cave hideaway and find me a mountain sweetie to retire with. That sounds nice, I'm so ready to get back to the old ways, a life entwined with the rest of life, but I know it's not time to relax yet. There's too much work to be done. And I know that the old ways might not sound as nice to you normal folk, as they do to my idealistic nature, so I recommend working on a future that doesn't include a return to primordial ooze. Either we admit there's a problem and start reversing the destruction immediately, or it's getting ready to be too late, and I might see some old time mountain music after all.

*******

But no mountains here, in a land that makes the flat Earth a believable theory, plenty of music though. Indian music. Drums. So good to be back near a drum of proper singers, the heartbeat of the Earth, and that's where I feel it. I kinda know a few songs, and the better I learn them, the more it feels like praying. Still working on the translations. That's part of the sacred responsibilities of being a drum carrier, of being the protector of an inspirited instrument of prayer, sharing the songs with the people, and being able to translate the words into a context they may understand. Plus, if I know what they mean, both a simple translation as well as a deeper understanding of the conceptual beliefs, able to feel the words in my heart as I feel them in my throat, it's gonna take my pray-singing to a whole new level.

Most Lakota don't even speak Lakota, between boarding school beatings and generational genocide, this language of the land is dying with our planet. On three different occasions throughout Sun Dance, I was offered the same piece of advice - "Learn Lakota. At least learn to Pray in Lakota." I already wanted this, picking up words here and there as I learn the traditional ways, but I also knew that it doesn't matter how you pray. I've always prayed in english, and it's still been working, so is it actually that important? Praying works anywhere in english, but it works even more so in the inipi, a Lakota ceremony, led by a Lakota speaking medicine person, so I can't discount the idea that speaking Lakota would connect me even further.

This is God we're talking about here, the alpha and omega, certainly he's multilingual. And what about all the other tribes? It's obvious that they have the same connection to Wakan Tanka as we do, and a totally different language. Albeit a language grown out of the Earth, intertwined with the most basic building blocks of the world around them, and physically in the same audio tuning as every natural sound, ever. My language on the other hand, has no such connection, not even in england, it's a purely arbitrary set of symbols with no grounding in reality. It is a colonized attempt to capture the magic of the infinite universe, and to wrap it up into neat little finite containers.

The Lakota had no spellings for their words, no need, their physical representations were among them in the living world. Their language was never written down, because it was also alive, evolving its breath alongside those who spoke it. As their culture developed, so did their tongue, only once a language is permanently recorded does it lose its ability to adapt with the changing times and dialects, becoming archaic and irrelevant to a new generation.

Look at the first version of our alphabet, the original semitic "aleph-beth", a collection of 22 consonant sounds only, leaving the reader to interpret the fitting vowel shapes, or breaths. The breath of course being the conscious influence of divinity, as the first word vibrated, and as yogis find their way om. The start of a phonetic language, but they were only developing a way to write the words that had come to them through their homeland. The spoken word still resonated with the planet, and their chosen symbology was still rooted in the physical world, much like the pictographic languages of china and egypt. 'Aleph' - the Ox, certainly a precious animal to their way of life, and if you upturn our 'A', you might see the resemblance to its real life counterpart. Or their letter 'mem', meaning water, whose waves can be seen in our letter 'M'.

Then the greeks got ahold of the aleph-beth, or our alphabet, the first written representation of the human voice that has nothing to do with anything but humans. The letters no longer bring the reader to a specific place on the planet. The abstract words now seem to float in empty space. The made-up symbols now symbolized nothing, except a way to encrypt the magic of the planet into spells, which could then be used to glamour a society into being civilized.

This was remarkably noticeable to those still speaking with the Earth, who were unwilling to convert, so the proponents of phonetics had to sneak their way in. Homer did it, doh. Not simpson, I mean the Iliad and the Odyssey, the most classic epics, and epic classics, and he didn't even author them. Yeah, he wrote them, in a phonetic language, but these had been long passed-down spoken tales for generations. An oral tradition that held many details of their way of life, morality lessons and cultural taboos, tales to keep the people safe, and they changed with the times. Retold continuously, updated with current knowledge and understanding, these tales were relevant, and occurred in the particular landscape of the people being engaged. Until Homer wrote them down. Locked them in. Made the story static. Dated. Outdated. No longer flexible, unable to move with the wind of changing times, or locations, clearly a text of some archaic primitivism, and after a few generations these were just some old-timey stories.

Hmm... Some really old mythological stories, teachings of morality, meant to guide an entire culture in a good way, pretty epic stuff really, but it's written about a people who lived so long ago that their way of life makes no sense to us. These stories can't be anything more than myths, and they don't make sense in modern times, so we can either only follow the bits we want to, or we can try to force a literal interpretation of a text that we literally can't interpret.

Imagine if the bible had never been written, instead only passed down orally, as it had been for many generations prior. Each generation tweaking the details, crafting a narrative that connected you to the journey of the characters, through both the land and through the culture. No new scientific discovery could cause question among the believers, the story was rooted in an up-to-date understanding of the world around them. But write it down, and the next thing you know, we're killing people who say that the Earth is round.

And when you start writing stuff down, you start forgetting it. You're no longer on the hook to memorize your cultural knowledge, to understand the stories that teach your people, to stay connected to the land as you rely on it for guidance. You can read it whenever, so you're now free to forget all about Unci Maka. Plato himself, one of the earliest adopters of writing, which allowed the abstract way of thinking that empowered his philosophical pioneering, he even warned about the implications of the practice. "If men learn this, it will implant forgetfulness in their souls." Coincidentally, the collective soul of man has seemed to have forgotten about any type of connection with anything.

Except money of course, which is coincidentally not only the root of all evil, but of writing too. The written language was conceived of as a way to keep tabs on people, debts, to cook some books, only in a disconnected language of nothing Earthly, can the language of currency accrue interest.

*******

Well, with all that in mind, maybe there's something to it. Maybe it's not just silly advice from some senile old native. A member of the last generation who can remember the old ways, who spoke this disappearing language fluently, who may have seen the disconnection that followed as their family was forced to learn a new way of speaking. A new way of sharing their heart vibrations with the world, but in a language that only humans understand. And he might not have thought about any of that, he might just remember some story an elder told him once, warning of speaking a tongue other than the one given to you by the land. A passed down oral tradition whose stories guide the people, so interwoven into their culture that it would be an absurdity to separate the humans from 'nature'.

I'm not giving up on english yet, after all, I am writing a book that requires its abstract thought processes, but I am also gonna learn as much Lakota as I can, and once I'm ready to find my cave, Unci and I are going to have the best conversations.

So I learn the names of my brothers in a language they can understand, common courtesy, though I also know that there is a deeper web of communication that transcends any audible frequencies. Sunkmanitu Tanka - my brother Wolf; Sunka Wakan - the Sacred Dog who is my brother Horse; Wanbli - the Eagle above; Zuzeka - my dear brother Snake; and Tatanka - the most sacred Buffalo.

*******

The White Buffalo Calf Woman, giver of the chanupa to the Lakota people, bringer of this way to walk in prayer, and she brought us a warning about the coming crossroads: If we choose to live in a good way, harmony will be restored to Earth, and if not, the Earth will be destroyed. I'd tell you the rest of the story, but I'd have to write it down, and after that last bit, I'm thinking that's not something I'm wanna do.

Point is, the Buffalo is sacred, and understanding the way an entire ecosystem packs up and follows them on tour, really starts to explain the gravity of their pull. Of course the Buffalo is sacred, they lead this entire parade of life, and if we're honored enough to kill one in the hunt, their energy will propel us to great heights.

Well, if that's the case, we should probably be eating one at Sun Dance, right? You know it. We eat meat.

Word on the prairie was that we were getting a whole Buffalo, should be enough to feed the fam for a while, but we're not talking about a box of frozen steaks here. We drove to a nearby Buffalo ranch maintained by the reservation's equivalent to our fish and game department.

They may not have been the most feral of Buffalo, but they had a fairly sizable range in which to freely roam. Like ten thousand acres. We may have essentially eradicated the vastness of the local food supply, but the Buffalo are coming back. And I get the honor of riding along with the ranger, as we secure this sacred sacrifice that will feed the family for weeks. If we can find them.

The hunting party rendezvoused on a nearby hilltop, the herd had been spotted across the way, so the four of us loaded up and we were in hot pursuit. We hurried the truck across the river, the modern marvels of mechanically separated Buffalo facilitate a different experience than the bareback Bison encounter. And maybe not any more efficient, as we neared the herd, they were gone. We set out to head them off at the pass, but they evaded our advance with each approach, we traversed the terrain for hours with no sight of the Tatanka Oyate. There may have been a fence around the borders of the Buffalo Nation, but they could probably go days without running into the cages of a captive audience.

Still can't be down with the fences of ownership, but the stewardship of the Sicangu as they empower the Buffalo to rise up, is probably the closest to cage-free that I've ever encountered. Even in places of wilderness, borders are still defined by neighboring entitlement, you run far enough and you'll hit a wall. And here, in a proportionately miniscule nation, a people who once cared for vast landscapes of migration now condensed into compact cells of forced assimilation, walled into this prison camp of poverty where it's a daily struggle to ensure their own survival, and still they understand the importance of letting their future run free. Allotted a mere fraction of the land they once tended to, yet they've still reserved such a large portion of their home in order to preserve the bloodline of another. They know that the more we enable the garden to grow, the more we'll all benefit from the bounty. They understand that we are all related.

So sure, maybe a ten thousand acre woods with a picket perimeter is still a little too cagey to contain the boundless beauty of my infinite mother, but even though it may not do her much social justice, it certainly seems a viable step of transition as we evolve our way of living, and rejoin the planet that we are a part of. Maybe the infrastructure of road hazard prevents us from letting all Cows break loose, but what if we reserved vast swaths of territory for their sovereign nation, in which they were free to follow their stomachs? And as we deconstruct the cages of our society, we could begin to link together the evolution of migration, as we share the space necessary to free their way and to feed our own future.

It'll feed a lot of others too, and I'm not so sure that we're even the most evolved predator, but that's no cause for illegal interference against our friendly competition, it's simply a prerequisite to participate in the game of living life on Earth. Living life as Earth. You are the planet, and the planet is your brother Wolf, and only through a diverse web of symbiotic relationships, will we regain our footing in the equilibrium of our liquid planet's evolution.

We'd also have to adapt to sharing with each other, a species-wide shift of consciousness away from the fear of scarcity, and into the love of abundance. And we should probably stop eating so much beef, shopping at your local grocer will reduce the export tax on the digestive system, and if you just must have a daily dose of ribeye, then you could always go on tour with the band. Herd that.

*******

I'm here to tell you though, tracking a Buffalo herd isn't as easy as a band of highly evolved indians might make it look on tv. But we were tooling around in a four wheel drive oil burner, emitting an unnatural vibration with every move, and Buffalo probably have bigger eardrums and the capacity to perceive lower frequencies. Plus, their instincts haven't been bred and beaten out of them, like ours have, so they probably just put an ear to the ground and heard us coming a mile away. Woulda been way cooler on Horseback, probably easier, and certainly sounds far more sporting. And even without a posse of the Sunka Wakan to take us out to dinner, I bet that our evolutionarily superior pea-brains could probably figure out a way to outsmart a herd of followers.

We couldn't even find them though. Our tracking guide was about ready to call it quits, we talked him into another go at it, perseverance, and then we looked up to make eye contact with the leader of the pack. Our path had finally intersected with that of the most sacred Buffalo Nation. So the ranger pulled out his rifle and shot one.

I can't quite determine how I feel about gun control, though I do know that I don't like it when the police are shooting at me. And I know that no amount of amending our 3D blueprints will bear the arms necessary to outgun our hijacked government. Peace and prayer are the only way to overthrow the tyranny of oppression, but bullets can certainly take down the biggest game in town.

But guns are the easy way out, kinda. Takes a lot more work and material to manufacture, gunpowder tea may grow on trees but its namesake does not, they're physically jarring and earsplitting to operate, and that same blast of artificial vibration tips off an entire forest full of food. Obviously I think arrows get straighter to the point, far more efficient than the casings of convenience, they actually do grow on trees, and they level the preying fields as they don't drown out the sacred vibrations of life. And I've personally taken to carrying a throwing stick gifted to me by my brother Charlie, a boomerang, handcarved to take out a Kangaroo or a Deer, but let's circle back to the Buffalo bites for now.

The bull was down, so I pulled out a pinch of Tobacco and shared a prayer as my brother's vibration moved between worlds, also sang him a little outro music. We got to work, undressing his wounds, bagged and tagged the inside parts for further investigation, took a bite of the bleeding heart, and dragged the rest of this story back out to the Sun Dance grounds.

*******

Even one vegetarian got in on it, seems her beef was mainly with the commercial cattle industry. Steaks, loins, roasts, wings and two racks of ribs that could double as a Flintstone's marimba. A couple fridges packed, and a freezer, and we gotta cook some right now.

I made a massive pot of Buffalo stroganoff on the fire, it had to have been thirty gallons, a crowd favorite even with a few stray Buffalo hairs. There's a little art involved in cooking Bison to the desired tenderness, especially without aging the meat at all, mainly slow and long, and I found a good combo of boiling and grilling to be pretty effective. And then the ribs. Who even knows? I brined them overnight in vinegar, pickle juice, and apple cider, then we boiled them in that big pot over the next night. Was gonna blacken them on the fire, but before we knew it, they were falling off the bone delicious. And that bone broth. Thick and concentrated, so flavorful, and such good medicine.

Bone broth, so important, and easy. Just put some bones and cartilage and marrow in a pot of water and broth it up, takes at least twelve hours to break down the good stuff, but just takes a few cents of your precious moneys, must be why it's not that famous at your local grocer. And it provides the essential amino acid glycine, which we don't receive from consuming meat alone, but once unlocked from the bones it is free to build new ones, and skin, and it's essential to digestion, circulation, hormone regulation and the nervous system, but don't be nervous, a little bone broth will fix your glycine deficiency right up. And it'll give you gelatin, not j-e-l-l-o, but an incomparable superfood that treats anemia, diabetes, muscular dystrophy, arthritis, and, dot dot dot, cancer.

Chicken bone broth really is good for infectious disease, and fish head stew boosts your thyroid health as it increases energy and mental capacity, and eating the eyes stops eyesight deterioration too. Bone broth is amazing for our stomachs, our blood, our bones, our skin, our minds, but the real food for thought is that bone broth from animals who eat genetically modified feed, is toxic, so what's that mean about the meat? But that stuff just wasn't around back in the day, back when bone broth was an essential part of all traditional diets, even in europe, back when they couldn't afford not to use the whole animal.

When you kill a Buffalo, you take not only its meat, you are responsible for honoring its entire sacrifice. The sacred Buffalo skull, we cleaned it the best we could, Unci Maka can do the rest, and soon we will have a new altar for the sweat lodge. We built a frame and stretched the hide for tanning, please refer to 'Step One' for further instruction. We cleaned the guts to make some spirit food, and of course we took another bite of the raw heart, though it was not nearly the spiritual experience I went through when consuming the wildest of Buffalo hearts at camp.

Animals (and plants) who are not free to follow their heart, to eat what they are spiritually drawn to through their God-given instincts, to stay connected to the land and water of the outside world, are not fit to eat. At least not when you've felt this literal wave of energy pulse through your body, and then a period of intense clarity, and all this from ingesting a single bite of an animal's spirit itself. That is what food is supposed to be like. It's meant to directly connect you to Unci Maka.

Consuming harmonious vibrations should be keeping you continuously tuned-in, but that wasn't good for business, so they disconnected the entire radio. Fake foods are not a product of a disconnected society, they are a cause of it. The more your diet strays from Unci Maka, the more difficult it becomes to feel her inside of you, to hear her voice, to be reassured by the comforting winds of the four directions. The worse you eat, the scarier the world gets, especially considering the levels of intentional toxicity in today's cancerous cuisine. Luckily enough though, if you do get sick, I happen to know where there's a Buffalo scrotum medicine bag sitting in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota. Write that down.

I love you trees.

I know it's been rough lately,

Unci's been sick,

because of stuff we did,

but she's getting ready to start healing herself.

There is a movement of us,

we are waking up,

we are reconnecting with all of you.

We're going to win this thing,

please hang in there.

I love you so much.

And any help you got is much appreciated, aho.

*******

Today is Tree Day. Sun Dance eve. The day that the dancers will travel several miles to locate this year's Sun Dance tree, and then they'll all work together to carry it back to the arbor. I know, I've been a little vague so far, and I can't guarantee that won't continue, but I guess it would help if I filled you in a bit.

In the middle of the Sun Dance circle, there's a tree, not growing, but in the ground and upright as though it were. The ceremony takes place around this sacred tree as it moves through the four directions. All of the dancers have prepared six hundred Tobacco ties, prayer ties, a hundred of each sacred color that they then wrap around the tree. Prayers for the people. That's what Sun Dance is, the strong spiritual warriors praying for the rest of us. For the year ahead. This is the Lakota new year, and the tree is covered with heartfelt decoration. Thirty or so dancers, 600 ties each, 6 colors, plus other prayers from the community. It was entrancing.

A high voltage antennae transmitting to the heavens, as it's toroidal flow energizes the Earth. The inipi concentrates a united prayer and blasts is skyward, affecting change in its wake of subatomic interaction, so if that's only a sweat lodge, just imagine what four days of hardcore praying is gonna send out there. Or if you like science more than prayer, then just substitute the english word 'vibration.' A united 'vibration' blasting out through the unified field of universal energy, vocal cord reverberation, heat waves from the stones, and alpha brainwaves on my mind - prayer vibrations.

We live in a vibrating universe. Vibrations from the sun power our vibrating planet, who created the vibrations of life, and at the tiniest particle level, they may not be particles at all, but subatomic vibrations. Waves. Like the waves in our ocean, glittered with plastic as they sparkle in the vibrations of moonlight. The Moon that pulls on the tide throughout its cyclical orbit. A monthly celestial cycle, whose regularity is familiar to most, as well as the clear physical impact it has on our emotional state. Or the more gradual changes of our yearly orbit, cycling between seasonal allergies and seasonal depression. Gravitationally significant celestial bodies, spiraling through space, and affecting our day to day. Waveforms of energy, each positive and negative parabola a 'cycle', a complete revolution, and the number of cycles per second - the frequency.

The cycle of the Earth's rotation - a day and a night, light and dark, positive and negative, yin and yang. Tuned into frequency 365.25 cycles/year. Other worldly happenings affect life on this planet. These basics that we based our calendar on, are simply within the spectrum of the cycles that we have the patience to notice, but certainly longer spanning movements affect our time here on Earth.

And our time here on Earth is filled with the smaller cycles of life, all the way down to the microscopic interplay of entangled electrons. These spiraling waves compose the universe, at every scale and level, from the infinite spirals of the expanding cosmos, to the very light waves that when projected through your physical being, give an illusion of an identity separate from spirit.

Or the outward spiral composed by the inward workings of a Snail's shell, a product of random mutations, yet upon closer inspection, its design seems to religiously follow a rigid recipe for life. Through incalculable odds, these precise mathematical equations define the building blocks of our biological blueprints. This sacred geometry is the math of life. The math of the universe. The math of God.

*******

1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34,55... The Fibonacci Sequence. A simple pattern attained through basic addition, and basically, if you combine any two adjacent numbers in the series, your total will bring you to the next. A mathematical system that builds on itself as it grows into infinity, and when its uncharted evolution is charted with curves, the spiral that unfolds is identical to the Snail, but let me slow this down a bit for you.

This sequence of numbers is found throughout the natural world, it seems to be the very fundamental element that guides the growth of our family. Sometimes it is manifested into this world as a literal spiral, like the shell, who upon a half organized dispection, is clearly a product of Fibonacci. A look at its cross section reveals many chambers of secrets, beginning with two similarly small compartments in the center. Our baseline, our 1 and 1, and the next section seems to have doubled in size, or a ratio of 2. Spiraling out from there, the growth has increased by 50%, giving us our 3. Now we start to gain some ground as we move away from the concentrated center of attention, add 3 + 2 to get 5, a bump up of 2/3 from our previous. And in this fashion, the shell follows the formula of fruition, chambers of 8, 13, 21, and so on, ensue.

This same specific spiral can be seen in the arrangement of seed heads, like in a Sunflower, or petals on many other flowers, often totaling a Fibonacci number. Or seed pods on a Pine cone, or the composition of a Spider's web, or you can find the same ratio spiraling out of control from the eye of a hurricane and in the waveforms of the rising ocean. You can even see this numerical anomaly emanating from both the black hole at our galactic center, and the most intricate workings of our DNA molecules.

Outside of this cosmic spiraltuality, the math just keeps on giving. Trace the path of diverging branches as our Sun Dance tree ascends to greatness, always starting with a single trunk, and as you climb the increasingly frequent limbs of a tree, you also climb Fibonacci. And the Ant that passed you on the way up, his body is built around this sequence, as are the other animals, including us. From the segments of our hands to the arrangement of our face, it's as if Fibonacci held the brush that painted us into existence.

Da Vinci drew it too, that's what his famous depiction of man was all about, a diagram of divine design, which he then implemented into his many inventions. The human apery of nature's architecture, seen in the curvature of the eiffel tower, and the perfection of the parthenon. It's also what the free masons were all about, a guild of craftsman who geeked out on building with this heady math, maybe just for fun, but I'm thinking there might have been a little more to it. Like the fascinating relationship between this subconscious sequence, and the golden ratio, or Phi.

Phi is a little harder to wrap your head around, or to wrap my colonized words around at least, and the original greek symbol of a completed circle bisected by a straight line (Φ), actually turns out to be more accurate than just some arbitrary scribbling. Like Pi, Phi is a never ending number, 1.618033488... and on and on. We'll just call it 1.61 though, the golden number, the golden mean, or the golden ratio. The ratio being 1:1.61, and most easily comprehended as a straight line segment. If we divide our line into a big half and a little half, in such a way that their ratio is mirrored by the ratio of the big half to the total length, that's Phi. That's a confusing bit, I know, but we'll be ok as long as we can takeaway a concept of how this number can create an infinite sequence in either direction. Not yet, huh?

So just go with me on the 1.61 thing, people way smarter than either of us have already confirmed it, like Pythagoras. We've got our little half and big half, the latter of which is 1.61 times the length of the former, and the total of both is 1.61 times the length of the big half. So if we wanted to extend our sequence, we could add a line segment that is 1.61 times the length of our current total, which gives us a new total, and a new big half. And now we have a chance to add another 1.61. This could obviously go on forever, or could grow infinitely smaller as we continuously divide our line by our magic number.

Now, you could certainly create a line with any other ratio, like my favorite 1:2, with segments of 2,4,8,16,32,64,128, and 256, just as fractal in nature as we zoom up or down the infinite series of bits and bytes, but we're talking about a different thing here. Only with our golden touch, does the symmetry of the sequence start to show itself. Every new segment of 1.61 times the last, is also the sum total of the previous two sections, so you could envision folding it over on itself, a perfect fit. And fold that into the last two, and then the two before that, and into infinity you can curl this ratio in on itself, theoretically, all the way back to the singularity. From the infinitesimally small beyond, only conceivable as a microscopic seed of life, this sequence then endlessly unravels itself, much as the Ferns of spring unravel themselves and the planet takes flight.

Wait a sec, you said each number is the sum of the previous two? I thought that was Fibonacci? Well, sort of. The difference in the two, is that Fibonacci starts from 1, a finite beginning, but Phi has nothing of the sort, it spans in either direction into perpetuity. Forever. Outside of time.

What is the ratio of Fibonacci then? Ah, here's the cool part, one of them anyway. It's always changing, but not a random mutation, it seems to be striving to bring itself closer and closer to Phi, closer to 1.61, closer to the golden number, closer to perfection. Let's take a look.

So 1,1,2,5,8,13,21,well, the first two are pretty easy, they share a ratio of 1:1, duh. And another gimme with a 1:2 follow up. Ok, so far we've hit the integers on either side of our golden thingamabob, but I'm not sold yet. Well, 2:3 is the same as 1:1.5, and then 3:5 reduces to 1:1.66 and holy cow we're already getting there. 5:8 is 1:1.60, 8:13 is 1:1.6153, and 13:21 brings us to 1:1.619. Shockingly close to our golden doodad, but never quite reaching its unreachable goal of perfection, only tightening its gap into infinity.

Try to visualize it like a waveform, graph it out, here, I'll sketch it for you. Draw a straight horizontal line, this is Phi, 1.61, the unchanging constant in the cosmic construct. Now mark the first ratio of Fibonacci, 1.0, do it somewhere on the left side, just a dot somewhere under the Phi line. And now a bit to the right for the next ratio, 2.0, so a dot above the 1.61 line, but not as far away as the first had been. To the right a bit and back under for 1.5, right again and up above for 1.66, right and down 1.60, and let's connect the dots on this fundamental vibration of life. Draw the wave, and see it drastically tune itself to our centerline, almost. With every cycle of our waveform, the Fibonacci sequence, or this mathematical code that seems to steer the growth of our planet, draws nearer and nearer to absolute unity. Pure perfection. A state of infinite connection. Oneness.

*******

It's like the G string on your bass rig, give it a good thump and watch it go. Wild erratic jumps at first, but quickly falls right in line, and you can literally watch the vibrations lose amplitude as the string approaches a full and complete stop. When it's still, you can see the entire string, but no beautiful music. Only when you shake it up a bit, does the song start to unfold. So Phi is the guitar string in its infinitely resting position, as a particle, not a wave, the entire theory of music coiled into a single wire. And Fib is the string in motion, the vibration that brings the music to life, transforming the singular into the symphony of our sensual world. We know that the entire universe is made of vibrations, science, from particle physics to solar flares to vitamin D to 7.83 to radios to rainbows, and all the way out there until we hit the eternal white light.

Wait, eternal white light? You mean an infinite source of every other color in the known universe? An all-inclusive energy that can project a holographic reality, but only after being obscured through a filter of vibration? I see what you're saying, the white light is Phi, the constant, the undivided beam of complete conclusion, the everything. And Fibonacci is the vibration of experience, as we spiral our way closer and closer to the heart of it all. Oops, think I got ahead of myself a bit, but pretty heady stuff, huh?

So the ratios of this Fibonacci thing are all over creation, almost looking like Phi, but not. Like the segmented lifestyle of our augmented Corn. Or something as simple as leaf spacing, which follows this flow chart, as it somehow provides the precise amount of room for maximum Sun exposure. Fibonacci is the engine of evolution. The mechanics of how the natural world comes into being. Each generation closer to perfection than the last, each cycle, and through the fine-tuned refinement phase, your species gradually becomes a more fit version of itself.

Phi is the ultimate destination, and a beacon of guiding light as we just give everything a bit of time. Fibonacci is the manifestation of the infinite Phi into this finite physical world. Within its vibration is the entirety of time itself. It seems that the whole system is built to experience the system building itself, and an impossible target ensures that the show must go on.

Certainly I've not proven God's existence by equation, the dynamics of nature's governing laws are what they are, no need to assume a supernatural governor. Plus, if we were gonna find God in the numbers, he wouldn't be hiding in the land of the pagans, he'd obviously be in the sky. I'm not trying to prove anything, your path to spirit is yours alone, or not, and my idea of God is something that can't be visualized anyway, and would certainly never fly in sunday school. God or not, there's something with these numbers though, and something with the manifestation powers of unconditional love, and definitely something about the creative control of the cosmos. Yep, saw it in the stars.

*******

The whole 'science' of astrology, is the study of celestial cycles of influence. Music on a much grander scale, but composed of the exact same wavy spirals. A spirographic universe of outward orbit. Not expanding into obsoletehood, but expanding its own consciousness as it comes closer and closer to a reunification with Phi. Think of Phi like a circle, a perfect circle, so think of Phi like a pie, now that's not confusing at all. And Fibonacci is a single dot in the center, the beginning of something, a seed loaded with the code of creation and standing by for the word, the vibration, the go ahead to get going. It's time.

Our Fib dot unfolds itself, now we have two points on a straight line. Another unfolding brings more dots and more straight lines, but as our series progresses, our program that seems to have a life of its own, also seems to be building a spiral that is getting close to the curvature of our Raspberry Phi. Our Moon around us, us around the Sun, the Sun around the Milky Way, and our galaxy around this spirical universe.

So Fibonacci isn't some lifewater magic that spawned evolution from two amino acids, it's been guiding our gravity since before we ever had any pull. And if you thought that it took a long time for our planet to sprout people, you should have been there for the coalescion of our circular Earth herself. Then the Moon came along and shook things up as it slammed into us, violent vibrations at first, earthquakes and wobbly orbits, but each heavenly body somehow settled into a harmonious balance with the rest of our solar discography, and all in the name of Phi.

Now the Moon tugs at us throughout our daily life, but don't think that's all we get out of this universal expansion pack. The stars affect us here on Earth. Truth. However it works, those little twinkling lights in the sky, as well as our local planetary positions, influence us in big ways.

So what's your sign again? Oh, that's right, you said that was all mumbo jumbo, no dirty gypsy is gonna tell me how to live my life. I got free will and all. And you do. You absolutely have the free will to ignore this obvious correlation between birthdays and human behavior.

I also get free will, even with my stargazing habits, but possibly even more free, considering that I'm empowered with the knowledge of my natural predispositions. I don't consider it fate, it's more like the specific gravitational grid that was active as my brain chemistry was getting all mixed up. The unique specifications of my physical body, the details of how my eternal spirit will experience this particular trip down Fibonacci lane. The stars might give you a push in the right direction, but it is what you do with that momentum that determines who you become.

They don't stop the day you're born either, even if the Earth did stand still. Their continued journey continues to affect yours. Forget the hippie stuff, just look at the science. It's undeniable that space rocks affect life on Earth, from tidal waves to menstrual werewolves, so it seems pretty dumb to assume any other position. They're harder to keep up with, no nightly waxing of the Moon to record, these subtle cyclical influences that affect society as a whole, sometimes even take many lifetimes to reoccur. How could it ever be catalogued?

Well, thousands and thousands of years of star knowledge, an understanding and connection with the cosmos that simply cannot be paralleled by a google sky map app. But we don't really know all that much about it, especially after oppressive governments burned entire libraries of wisdom. And then burned the mystics too.

But I'm not here to read your palm, I just want to be sure that your mind is opened up to the possibility that we are not isolated from the rest of interactive space. In a universe literally built on vibrations, it's foolish to think that we're some type of anomaly within the laws of physics. Waves of energy will affect the energy of our waves, it's science. Now, the parts about predicting your path, or next week's lotto numbers, probably not as empirical as Ms Cleo would have you believe, though, I generally don't listen to anything the empire has to say anyway.

*******

We can certainly predict the future of these galactic spin cycles though, we have tons of scientists and universities dedicated to interstellar investigation. And telescopes. Tons of 'em. Quite literally. But not quite enough to capture the big picture, should probably build build build another big bigger biggest giant massive telescope. Too much light pollution in the developed world though, gotta find the tip top of some way high mountain out in the middle of nowhereland. How about Hawaii? It's just a tiny dot in the far corner of the map, and they have a super tall mountain, Mauna Kea, sounds divine.

I bet it does, this most sacred mountain of the native Polynesian people connects the energy flows of heaven and Earth, it is their eldest ancestor, even they would never build as much as an altar upon its summit. Just like how the Lakota would never set up camp on their most sacred mt rushmore.

But we own Hawaii now, won it in a poker game I think, and we were even so nice to the locals that we didn't massacre all of them, why we even gave them jobs at the airport as they welcome the incoming colonialism. Of course, we did outlaw their language, musta been scared of the Earthly power found in a native tongue or something. Or maybe we didn't want them gossiping about how we hadn't actually won their living island fair and square, how we just stole it in the middle of the night, not that I'd expect a domain of such eminence to start worrying about their reputation at this point.

Can't be that bad, we didn't even invade the Kingdom of Hawaii, we just sent the church, the missionaries, those with the moral authority to impose God's will. We sent the 'Congressional Church', or what is now called the 'United Church of Christ.'

Holy what!? That's a real thing? Oh jeez. We sent our national minister to administer some good old fashioned white folk praying. He got in bed with the new kids on the block, as do all good clergymen, but I meant the refined gentlemen of the colonized sugar industry. They, supposedly without the knowledge of washington, staged a coup and overthrew the peaceful local government. Aloha. The queen ceded without altercation, unwilling to allow her people to be hurt, and although the US didn't plan on seizing this major opportunity of exploitation, they most certainly didn't hand the keys back over either.

And again, the past is the past, but this telescope thing is happening right now. During the fight at Standing Rock, the state of Hawaii approved the construction, but they admittedly underestimated the indigenous community, who stood up and brought the building to a halt. And still it rests in contention. There are already thirteen scopes on the mountain, though this would be the biggest in all of the northern hemisphere, so thirteen precedents that this is no big deal. Just like an array of pipelines in place, proves that progress is paramount. Except that they all leak, not the telescopes, but they have all spread destruction along their paths as well.

NASA performed their own study, and found that their presence had greatly affected the local ecology in very harmful ways. The construction process powered by destructive equipment has obliterated the once lush landscape, plus trash and debris is in constant flow down the side of this supposedly inactive volcano. Luckily, NASA isn't quite as merciless about destroying the planet as the faceless pockets of the oil machine. They're not stopping or anything, but they want to proceed in a good way, like, not at gunpoint. The empirical scientists certainly don't acknowledge any type of legitimate spiritual claim about the sacrednicity of said mountain, but that's cool, as long as they acknowledge that it's probably not too intellectual to destroy the Earth in the name of exploring space.

*******

Now, I'm certainly not knocking astronomy, there's a lot to be learned from the stars, the indigenous communities I look to for advice have all had strong relationships with the sky. Grandfather Sky, pouring sacred energy into Grandmother Earth, she in turn birthing all that we know. Such a cool cycle of universal energy, and scientifically accurate, as even flat-Earthers can't deny that the Sun powers the Earth who empowers the Earthlings. They should invent a dance or something.

And they did it all without an invasive hundred foot telescopic tumor, but I've said all along that they were at the peak of evolution, vision most certainly not excluded. Doubtful that they could see some of the far out spaciness that we've been able to capture, but you never know, other captured cultures from the past seemed to have a pretty good grasp on future technologies.

Mayan calendar. Dope. And certainly convenient that it's cyclical circle is a much more accurate representation of reality, than the awkward cellblocks of the colonized squares, though there's no good place for cute puppy photos. Its complex design keeps track of an array of celestial cycles, including a more precise version of our days and years, but without our demands of instant gratification they were also able to see into the future. They were aware of space dust that we've only recently destroyed enough ecosystem to discover. They were on that long game for sure, days into months into years into baktuns(144,000 days) into the amount of time that it takes for the Earth's wobble to complete an entire... wobble?

The procession of the equinox, the planet's third axis of power, the rotating tilt of our off-kilter trajectory. All this and more can be found in the latest greatest calendar of the Mayans, from the orbits of the orbs, to the schedules of the stars, and for a very limited time we'll throw in an added bonus of synchronistic convergence (just pay the additional shipping and handling).

That super long cycle, the one that affects the fundamental climate conditions of our planet, whose revolutionary nature happens to be in perfect time with the shorter cycles tucked into its timeline, it and all of those other spirals are all lining up, as they come together to close out the thirteen thousand year halfway mark of our weeble wobbling. Get ready, sudden planetary upheaval is imminent, end of the world here we come... Wait just a cycle, that was back in 2012, and the only disaster we saw out of that starred John Cusack.

It was no apocalypse now, but considering the scale of our timeline, it does seem a little small minded to expect a polar shift of consciousness to happen overnight. The existence of humans is but a tiny sliver at the very end of herstory, this cyclical vibration has been humming long before Earth Mama pushed us out of this world. From our minuscule perspective, we're already quite a few cycles beyond doomsday, but zoom out another 13,000 years and you see that we have only just begun. We are embarking on a long cycle of great change. We are standing in the doorway to a new age of man.

*******

Been there, done that, at least if you believe anything those crazy indians have to say. We've been through a few already, we were given a choice to thrive as we figure out how to live in a good way, or not, and they always seem to end with global catastrophe that pushes the growth of an evolving people. One with fire, another with a great flood, and most recently an instant ice age. Uneducated tribal mythology at best, though it does seem to have some correlations to the one true God and that book he wrote on his day off, and it also appears to harmonize with science.

The wiggle of our waggle will greatly affect climate conditions on Earth, including the water cycles, which will influence both firestorms and sea level, as well as global temperature changes as we warm ourselves into another big blizzard. Definite scientific evidence of the last ice age - "the ice age" - saw it in a cartoon so I know it's real, a sudden snowstorm that reduced our numbers as it pushed us to grow stronger. Also definite scientific evidence of early civilizations who up and disappeared, advanced cultures with technologies that we still don't understand, massive monoliths so magnificent that even our megamachines are immobilized.

Our obsession with instant gratification expects a hollywood montage of mayhem, but it might be a little more subtle than that, or it might already be happening. We imagine a great flood hitting us all at once, over forty days at least, but the planet could also find itself slowly submerging as the polar ice caps melt and ocean levels rise - like is happening right now. Or the deep freeze, perhaps it was a slower transition into colder temperatures, only noticeable across the generation gap. Or maybe the disrupted water cycles would look like runaway wildfires across the globe, with simultaneously unexplained rainfall records, and hurricanes, and tsunamis, and volcanic disruptions of the blinded mainstream, but still no one seems to notice.

And now the forth age of man, which is also what science is calling the sixth great extinction event, is winding down with a level of planetary deterioration envied by Darth Vader. The water is filled with oil and plastic, and dead fish. The air is toxic. Animals and plants have already begun their extinctual journey at a rate of 200 species per day, the diversity of life is drying up on Earth, which we know from herstory will only propel her further into Fibonacci. History might be over though.

We are already in it, whatever the logical explanation might be - act of God or act of man, or unicycles in space - it is undeniable that our planet is changing, and most statistics say that it's not for the better. Right now, we may be experiencing the decline of our way of life in subtle baby steps, but that doesn't mean that once our landfills reach a tipping point, that we won't experience the full wrath of instant gratification. I, personally, am expecting the big one, but I'm also a proponent of patience, so I'm using this time to prepare myself - physically, mentally, and spiritually - and I'm also following my path of inspiring others to join in.

Could be another 13,000, though I'm not holding my breath that long. Or could be 2050 or so, seems that most sciences doubt that we'll survive much past that point. And I've also caught a piece of native lore along the way, can't quite remember where I grabbed it, but it stuck. They said that the dawn of this new age isn't a single point in time, it is a span of years that encompass the recycling of 2012, fourteen years in fact, the seven before and the seven after.

Makes sense in my own life, the years leading up to 2012 had been a period of great growth in my path to awakening, and since then it has spiraled out of control as I have experienced exponential spiritual development. Connection. And the rumor is that we've all got this seven year period, until the end of 2019, to grow strong on all the fronts as we prepare ourselves for the journey ahead. Now, I'm not running out to grab a high interest loan or anything, but I am focusing my attention to developing my connection to our planet, my own personal survival skills, and building a network of those who I know I can count on in the moment.

Ok, enough of this doomsday device, it'll happen or it won't and I don't really make plans anyway, plus, I need to save a little credibility if I'm gonna get you to believe the next bit.

*******

So, cool, looks like you wrapped your head around the Fibonacci thing, otherwise I figure you'd go back and reread, or skip ahead because it's too dumb, but it's a really simple concept at its core. Basically, at the core, of everything, in existence, lies the mathematical coding of the entire physical universe. From the cells in your body, to population growth on Earth, to champagne supernovas, the same governing principle works on all levels.

It's tough to grasp a concept of scale from our perspective, where we can only see plants with arrangements that get ten or twelve deep into Fibonacci, and there's no way that you could ever fit all that information into a tiny little spiral inside of a single cell. But try to imagine the big picture, like from here to the big bang, trillions of cycles interwoven to craft the threads of time, we're talking way deep into our sequence of universal evolution.

Like any good sacred numerical code, in the beginning, there is only one, a singularity, like the single infinite bass string in the key of Phi. One pluck ignites a space explosion that literally ignites a world of vibration. So think of it as if God was Phi, or God is God and Phi is just his favorite number, or if maybe there is no God and Phi has been in charge the whole time, whoever it is, they are the string. Or they are the all-encompassing circle that Fib infinitely attempts to recreate.

Or maybe they were this infinite dot of infinite allness, complete in every way, bored really, so they shook themselves up really hard and scattered the entangled components of their own energy into the far depths of space. Maybe it started as the brightest ball of concentrated white light, and as a mechanism of experience, it was clouded with darkness and shadow, as it slowly began evolving back into the light.

The Fibonacci spirals begin with the first tug of gravity, and begin with the number one, just like the atomic number for that early hydrogen-rich unisphere. So picture a big wide Fibonacci waveform, cycling up and down as it moves left to right, smaller and smaller cycles as it moves on, all the way into forever. The very start of it is the big bang, and the first wide cycle took place over billions of years. A very gradual gathering of gasses, and then all of a sudden the lights came back on. A violent shift of creation from a swirling of the ether, and now jump right into nuclear fusion. A soft slope of our widest waveform, the farthest away from Phi that will ever be known, a ratio of 1:1, then it hit critical mass and the universe evolved in an instant.

That star had its own cycles stacked inside of the unicycle, whose all encompassing vibration was still in the earliest stages of attunement. This cycle is no doubt closer to God's ultimate plan, from chaos to collection, though with only a couple of known elements and a single star in the sky, I bet the constellations were pretty basic. So that star's life cycle grows closer and closer to completion, a gradual slide down the parabola of creation, and then it explodes. Our wave's cycle had been pulling in near to Phi, then the pieces of the universal construct were propelled apart again, once more PhiGod LightYear was separated into the heavens.

The visual representation on our wave chart, shows the vibration pulling away from our center constant, from Phi, but not as far away as the previous cycle, and looks like it should take less time to get humpty dumpty put back together again. And now there is way more stuff to work with, new elements of space debris. Through the destructive tendencies of creation, our universe evolved a more complex existence. Closer to God. Closer to the reunion of every particle that ever was, returning the universe to the all inclusive white light that is currently divided among those particular particles.

So we follow the cycle's curvature, far longer than any phase of our celestial neighborhood, we're talking about a literal astronomic scale here. This went on for a while too, a coming together of the growing universe, a harmonization of elements, until things get shaken back up. Remember how those first few cycles of Fibonacci are wild and crazy guys, and then it really starts to get dialed in? So these first few years, like billions of them, they saw some real chaos as they slowly arrived closer to equilibrium. Huge cycles of stars and explosions and stars and explosions and planets and crashing planets and more explosions, and each time stabilizing a little bit, as a more extensive ingredient list became available. Imagine an entire universe of space stuff, like we have now, more or less settled into a rhythm, all finding their own path, their own orbits free of collision, all experiencing the same sensation that our planet and Moon did as they negotiated their entangled routes.

Chaos, or so it seems from our perspective. We're already past the point of early vibrational madness, but as we zoom in on our waveform, we see that it is fractal in nature - the closer we look, the more we see the same ratios of cycle size at every scale. We're in the planetary scale now, the worlds in a world of their own. From above this plane it probably looks like a child's game, spinning balls spinning around other balls, bumping each other as they eventually spiral into a symbiotic stasis of equalized push and pull.

Then there's the whole part about the planets being sentient, kinda selfish to assume that ours is the only one who can talk, and pretty small minded to assume that we could ever understand something operating at such a massive scale. A long-winded frequency. How could we test for a planetary awareness, when the entirety of our species' life cycle, is a tiny speck at the end of hers? How could we ever know if perhaps all of the planets are unfertilized eggs, just waiting to find themselves in the right conditions to spawn life? Allowing their Sun's breath giving energy to turn them on, and begin the terraforming process that will prepare the planet for proliferation. And then she's finally a mom, brimming with a new family who love her dearly, until they hit the teenage years and forget all that she has ever given them.

*******

This Fibonacci waveform of pregalactic proportions contains the entirety of our timeline, it is time itself, actual time, the ever-changing flow of shorter straighter cycles. Does kinda seem like time is speeding up, huh? Each successive cycle has a slightly reduced amplitude too, we understand this as the volume of the particular vibrations that we're tuned to perceive, but it's really just the distance that any wave travels away from its center. Every cycle sees a pulling away from perfection, but less and less each time, and each fated return to balance experiences a slightly longer period of unity with universal symmetry.

That very first explosion, the big one, it was like this epic spiral fireworks display of all those little tiny hydrogen squiggles in every direction. There was an uncharted vibrational field composed of the single most basic blockchain, and even before that, there was just the raw ingredients twirling around, like quarks and stuff. The singularity of the everything, literally exploded into its most fragmented form of subatomic sine wave vibrations. The furthest fathomable distance from a full and complete stop. The most possibly condensed ball of matter, and with the flip of a switch, it was converted into pure energy of the highest amplitude.

They're the same thing, energy and matter, just different states of the same particles, and every bit of it was electrified as the great cosmic bass player slapped us into existence. The wax was hot, as would be expected after the universal remote powered on the whole shebang, but pretty immediately began cooling, stabilizing, materializing into matter. It seemed to matter little at the time, just a touch of condensation, and as the energy solidified, or at least gasified, it gained mass and developed a gnarly case of gravity. Vibrations became stuff, and Fibonacci began spiraling it all back together, an autopilot simulator attempting to glue back a shattered dream.

All that 'mattered' was growing more compact as the unicycle made its return trip through unity, eventually reaching the required density to light up, which began a new cycle of converting the new mass into outward energy. Then another explosion, but some of our vibrating spirals have started intertwining themselves into tighter curls, which makes for a more complex and condensed assembly, resulting in a more complete creation. Also means that the amplitude of the explosive vibration is quite a bit lower, the more entangled it becomes, the less it can spread out, our waveform is already adjusting itself to Phi.

These earliest cycles are easy enough to envision, ebbing and flowing as space dust expands and contracts (much like our bodily cycles), and every time with a little more substance to it, which makes it more stable, less shaky, lessening the intensity of vibration, and bringing the chaos closer to the Great Organizing Dynamic.

The waveform continues to evolve in this manner, slowly building its portfolio between crashes, and eventually gets tuned-in well enough to provide the right conditions for growing planets. "For best results, plant in direct sunlight." Cycles whipping all over the place by now, a whole sea of stars to keep up with, still a sketchy neighborhood, but with each passing period of positive and negative pull, it gets a little bit safer to take a stroll around the block. Years down the road, after our own planet has gone through her wildly vibrating teenage phase, seismic tantrums and volcanic acne, she miraculously settles down around the time she conceives of life.

Although, if she is the cosmic egg, fertilized by her higher power, then it would be like us calling our skin cells our children. We are not up for adoption, we are literally a part of her being, we are the living tissue of a sentient planet. We are not evolving on top of her, we are her, evolving into the next stage of planetary evolution. Big time, I know, like long term goals, outside of our scope, but we need to understand it about as much as our skin cells need to know algebra.

We're still on course too, hugging the curves of our ever-straightening path to heaven, and now that the Earth seems to have stabilized, Fibonacci finds its next outlet for this fundamental frequency to flower. And boy does it, life springs to life in a big way. Though I do seem to remember a few hundred million year life cycle of the self-destructive Cyanobacteria, an overpopulation guided by Fibonacci, whose oxygenation of the atmosphere led to the destruction of one cycle, as yet another more stable version took over.

Fibonacci literally sprang out of the Earth at every corner, spirals out of spirals out of spirals, just an immensely more detailed cambrian version of our original spiral explosion. Evolution continued in waves, populations waxing and waning with the regularity of the Moon, missing links and leaps of faith connecting cycles of growth, each generation progressing this gradual journey of returning to source. Each spiral striving for perfection, driving the evolution of such a mind-blowing cast of characters, and often nudged along by the cataclysmic close of a cycle. The completion of an age. The natural pulse of energy that empowers the infinite, and with each breath it brings itself closer to center, closer to Phi, closer to a highly evolved mathematical creation that appears to be crafted in God's image. We've now followed this universal vibration from the very beginning, surfed the volatile waves of time, all the way up to a frequency that was chill enough for a lazy species like us to finally stand up and do something with ourselves.

The age of man. Or the four ages of man, each a single cycle, a sliver of time in which our species is here to experience existence. Finger of God, or aliens, or cyclical solar flares that fueled random mutations with routine radiation, either way, here we are, and we ain't going nowhere, until we do. With each cycle we pull away from a harmonious balance with the creative constant, until we get snapped back into reality. They're even uncovering evidence that our entire species was knocked down to a population of a thousand, just ten or twelve thousand years ago. Or perhaps thirteen. We were all wiped out except for what amounts to a single tribe, like a single family surviving a flood or something, and then we relentlessly recovered our recovering revolver. At least that seems to be the play this cycle, the fourth age of man, but if man's time is up, will he disappear into the shadows, or bloom into the next step of evolution?

*******

Funny that this isn't common knowledge, yet so many indigenous cultures had a firm understanding of the cyclical nature of nature. It's like we forgot or something. Natives undoubtedly maintained a stronger relationship with the cycles of the Earth, their entire way of life was built around the various circular patterns propelled by the Sun, and they also enjoyed a much less polluted and unlit night sky, which might explain some of the magic they saw in the stars. But could they really have understood the interwoven thread of time? The macrocosms of minicycles that connect every single manifested molecule? How could a people without access to google, ever wrap their uncivilized minds around our vibrational composition? They can't read or write, or tell time, I mean, they haven't even figured out how to take charge and grow their own food.

Less progressed than us in every way, at least according to our measures of progressive living, which we based on our premature idea of progression. But they still live outside, well, in a round tipi maybe, but right there on the dirt and bugs and stuff, and they depend on the fire for survival, and don't even get me started on their food philosophies and how they'd rather pray to the planet than to take life into their own hands. Where on Earth could such an undeveloped people develop such a cosmic connection of universal proportions?

Where on Earth? Have you not been reading the same book I have? They didn't uncover the meaning of life on the Earth, they learned it from the Earth, through the Earth, by remaining in harmonious communication with their local representative. They were continuously attuned to the world around them, their bodily cycles aligned with both the local eco-cycle, and the global cycles that revolve around our nearest star. It didn't even dawn on them to set an alarm, their physical body was perfectly synced up with the rest of the planet, who was synced up with her creator, the Sun, who was happy to give us a gentle wake up call, and even a vitamin D supplement.

The daily cycles of varying light are easy enough to understand, a little tougher to see how they could retune us as the revolution evolves, but at least the colonized reenactment is loosely based on a true story. It's a scale that we can understand, tons of data from the empire, a hard day's work is even the empirical measurement of selling yourself out.

Indigenous communities were in-tune with far more cycles than your casio calculator watch. Like, all of them. They were enveloped in Earthly vibrations, they could understand the song of Unci Maka, they were active participants in this literal web of waveforms that composes the music of the gods. From the perspective of an outsider, an active listener, an observer, the sporadic chord progressions and experimental jazz stylings of the past, endless waves of tension and release, are obviously building to an ultimate harmony of choral climax.

To the non-musical, those whose senses are just not impressed with complexity, no clue what the big deal about some reverberations could be, much happier listening to the dumbed-down nonsense polluting the mainstream, or even better, blocking it out entirely as it's pushed into the background, no longer connected to any bit of the song - to somebody like that, this space rock opera just sounds like a bunch of chaotic noise. Hard to get much aural gratification from the tune, if from your listening position, the whole band is out of time.

Imagine instead, a seat not in the audience, but in the orchestra, a participating member of the symphony. And why would you not be, your parents were performers, as their parents before them, 'the show must go on' is the only life you've ever known. You know your part without even thinking, almost instinctively, I mean, the music has been playing pretty much non-stop since the dawn of time, though your section just recently crescendoed. You're only a single string in a magnum opus, you do play an intricate part that adds great depth to the story, but you also understand that the composition is much larger than anything you could ever play alone. Quite humbling. And you'd certainly never try to go behind the conductor's back and rewrite the score, cutting out vital bandmates altogether as you make room for an endless solo, only to end the performance early as the entire orchestra is drowned out in a pool of people.

No, you'd understand that the composition only works if we all play together, and you'd understand the scale of the notation. You've got a copy of the sheet music, an explanation of where the melody is coming from, and where it is headed as the evolving motifs interlock into a revolutionary resolve. There's no need to worry about what's next, or anything about the last measure, all you have to do is focus on the now. Stay in the moment, that's where the magic happens anyway, and you might even slip into the groove and start reading between the lines.

We may have the sheet music for the whole song, but there is ample space for improvisation. The astral notation provides the minimal structure required for the song to retain life, all of the vital components of timing and tuning, but if you're a seasoned musician with a trained ear, there's tons of opportunity to jam. You're playing in unison with the rest of the strings, collectively constructing your contribution to the concerto, but more importantly, you're still listening to the rest of the players. You can more intricately weave your own harmonies, because you payed attention to the development of the great cosmic jam. When you are sitting among the orchestra, it's easy, you're surrounded by the evolving tonalities, so you naturally stay in-tune. You can hear the horns, you can hear the reeds, you can hear the drumming heartbeat of the Earth. And because you're listening, you can join in and play with our planetary improv group.

Native communities were in-tune with not only accurate days and months, they were living among the cycles of their neighboring Sun-synced planetmates. When your cycling vibration is embedded into a lush landscape of sentience, it becomes obvious just how dependent the instrumentation is on each other. Like the trained ear of a musician instantly recognizing a single note out of key, the indigenous had an instinctual understanding of the interconnectedness of life, and the importance of maintaining harmonious relationships with every single participant. When you live a life like this, in perpetual harmony with the entire system of cycles at every scale, tuned-in to the subtle nuances of the now, there's no telling what kind of connection to universal understanding is possible. At least I'm not telling.

*******

The Mayans might have been trying to say something though, certainly put a lot of energy into constructing their calendar, almost as if it were meant to out-survive the old age of man. A concise cataloging of concentric cycles, they were actually aware of their generation's wrinkle in time. Celestial cycles that influence life on Earth. Celestial beings that interact with our Earth Mama, which affects the cells of her living tissue, like us. The changing cosmic seasons affected the community in big ways, but their astral calendar was there to remind them of their time slot, and what they might expect to be trending along the way. With the ability to impart this knowledge to future generations, perhaps their descendants will survive the procession of our wobble, the apparent driving force behind a roller coaster of climatic change.

And apparently a persuader of brain chemistry. A mixologist of our cyclical brainwave cocktail. Whatever it is about the stars and the vibrating planet and the wobble and the people and who created who, the human collective is affected by the changing tides of space waves. Entire populations shift with the times, with the cycles, not under the complete control of a conductor, he's just there to provide the framework in which our will is free to fill in. Our astrologic notation sets the tone of each verse, the overall emotional intent, the vibrational sum of the entire ensemble and the fated return to the root note, but each piece has more wiggle room than the equinox. The map of the stars doesn't give you direct routes, just points of interest along the way, but it does give you a context of where you are and where you're going, and what particular mode of travel might be most appropriate for the surrounding environment. But you do whatever feels right, free will to use the map as a reference, or free will to throw it away, we'll all end up at the same place in the end, one of us just might take a few detours along the way.

I guess the Mayans would never get lost with such a complex understanding of the space-time continuum, not sure if they made it in travel size though, and there's also the part about them predicting their own demise. They knew that the waves of change would carry the invasion of their homeland, and boy were they deadly accurate, but for some reason their calendar extended far beyond their lifeline. Perhaps they were a particular breed of human who understood that the universe did not in fact revolve around themselves. They understood the gravity of this wobble situation, procession of the equinox, procession of the ages, the next click on the viewmaster of the stars, a new alignment to the next stage of celestial influence. They understood the physics of the larger vibration, the coming together of unity, the separation of amplitude, and the cyclical nature of our natural connection.

It's like the relationship between verse and chorus, as if I haven't compared the governing dynamics of the universe to the obviously unrelated sound wave structures of science rock enough already. The chorus is complete across the audio spectrum. Full. Every band member is playing at capacity. The whole band is tuned, polyrhythmic time signatures sync up, happy major chords express the emotions intent on spreading jubilee. The chorus is never really long enough, and soon there's a stark transition into the verse, a longer section of music much different then the cohesion of the chorus. Fewer instruments can be heard, and those that can, are often slipping further and further away from their diatonic center - out of key. The notes of the soloist may seem to ring in their own ears, but the louder their amplification becomes, the more difficult it is to hear the rest of the band.

But that solo has soul. It's got heart. There's ups and downs, tears of pain and joy, turmoil and strife and angst and heartbreak. And love. It builds and builds, pulls us on a journey through time and space, and only as it bridges into the next chorus, does it become clear that it was leading here the whole time. Another period of togetherness. Completeness. And somehow even more complete this time through, more layers of more intricate harmonies, and it seems to last an extra bar this round.

The chorus only feels like ear candy because of the emotional journey that it took to get there, it really is just not as beautiful without the contrast of the darkened imperfection. This doesn't mean that the chorus is better than the verse, quite the contrary really, the verse is where the real story is. Where the song actually happens. The chorus of connection is cool and all, but it can get a bit repetitive, luckily the cosmic conductor knows exactly when to throw in a key change. Hope you kept the sheet music.

*******

So I get it, these calendar creators were well versed in the celestial cycles of change, they understood the universal mechanics of returning to a unified constant, which include a required pulling away from it. And if a vibrational alignment with Phi is a complete connection of cosmic energy, then it sure does make sense that the sections of separation would lead to disconnection. Almost like falling asleep. An entire planet of people caught up in a dream of solitude. Or, maybe our living planet has just been napping herself. Sleep cycles on a solar scale, maybe it's as simple as the angle of her tilt affecting the strength of her vibe, which causes us to center our attention on ourselves.

Could also be that she is literally sentient, and while her bodily cycles were cruising on autopilot, we made her sicker than a backside seven-twenty. You think she'll be pissed? Or maybe she'll just not feel too good, but once she diagnoses the problem, it'll only take a good system flush to bring herself back to life.

Whatever the chain of command for universal signal flow, humans are affected by the cycles of creation. We flow through periods of connection and disconnection, long-term relationships, and it's sometimes hard to maintain balance without clear communication. We've obviously been in a deep sleep for a long time, so deep that we dreamt up technologies to help keep us under, but luckily the Mayan snooze button has been nudging us back into awareness.

Imagine living during a choral era of ultimate understanding, and understanding the reality of your forgetful nature. Knowing that over the course of the next 13,000 years, your people are going to become more and more removed from said 'reality.' A predestined period of distance between man and nature, between man and God, a true separation of church and state. A time of duality, the free will to make bad choices, man's chance to pretend to be God. Your culture understands the importance of these times of self-exploration, integral steps in reassembling the entire universe, but you also understand that without a connected way of life, humans are fully capable of self-destruction.

So with all of this knowledge, and a responsibility to prepare future generations for the fog ahead, how could you ever send a warning message thousands of years into the future, across countless generation gaps and unknown social evolutions, and have any hopes of anyone on the other end recognizing that it was anything more than a crop circle? I bet a massive stone structure that is precisely aligned with the complex layers of cosmic vibration might do the trick. At least get their attention for a year or two.

*******

I most assuredly believe that our global communication package has been disconnected, but I've been blaming the separation anxiety on man's many marvels, things that we could never have lived without, but what if our species is just another victim of progress? What if the ultimate white light of awareness was simply shrouded in a cloak of darkness, hidden from connected consciousness as the light fell dormant. Asleep. An entire cosmic dream of slowly waking up. Light overcoming dark, a slow conversion of negative to positive, a healing of broken vibes, a reunion of separated states, also known as the ultimate battle of good vs evil.

Light vs dark. Love vs fear. True vs false. Unity vs chaos. Human beings filled with light vs those with an internal darkness. I've met both. Those with the light of love aren't against the ones with broken hearts, we're here to help the healing that must be done, to end the cycles of ancestral trauma that pollute the human psyche.

And maybe that's just the way it is supposed to be, the whole plot of the story, man not the antagonizing instigator of total annihilation, but just a pawn in the progressive demolition of universal harmony. Maybe us creating agriculture didn't separate us from Eden, it could just as easily have been a side effect of our all natural sleep cycle, though it most certainly destroyed whatever was left. Maybe some evil sentient spirit, like the dark lord or something, an atonal vibration that comes slithering through the garden, could he have something to do with our eviction as we fell into a disconnected state of duality? A darkness that pulls us away from our own internal light, our center - our Phi.

Imagine our great cosmic waveform, cycling up and down as it crosses our centerline. We know that the Phi line is perfection, completeness, oneness, the all inclusive white light, which brings us into universal harmony as we approach unity. So imagine that bright white beam of light in a sea of darkness, and as our wave of experience moves on its outward bound journey, we have to traverse through the unlit chasms of the unknown. Each cycle sees us in a departure from our connective tissue, left to navigate a dark path into the fear of being alone, made to forget that the power of love empowers our planet, and that we're on an evolutionary journey to a better place.

We are all God, his energy is in everything we see, including every drop of life, but if we all remembered the secrets of the universe, we just wouldn't have anything to talk about. To experience existence, you have to cloud the final product. You can't watch the synopsis before you've seen the film, you have to be left in the dark on the details if you're going to get the full viewing experience. No spoiler alerts.

But even in this blind scramble to some unseen finish line, not everyone's vibration can be muted. Even through the dark ages, there have been those who retained connection, enlightened ones, messiah type people and stuff, and also the witches and mystics that our darkened hearts couldn't open up to. I bet the Mayans also had some commissioners of connection, those who clearly understood these understandings, and were charged with interpreting them to the people. Community members who were tuned-in, who could act as translators between humanity and the rest of the natural world, who could speak the language of Unci Maka, who could gain insights from the stars, those who could communicate with the spirit world. A medicine person.

*******

So you're the spiritual leader of this community, a liaison between people and plant medicines, an energy healer, a tour guide of the cosmos, and you can see your people falling away from grace. Falling asleep. Luckily you have a giant stone calendar, proof that there is something bigger at play than any particular generation, and your understanding of the cycles enables you to continuously counsel a separated society. You also know that you won't live forever, but hopefully these ways and teachings will be passed down throughout the ages, and your people will once again come full circle.

Plus, we have this giant apocalypse-proof stone monolith, so even those in the next cycle should get the hint. And there's heady stone structures connected to the stars all over our planet, could these be trying to tell us something? It's hard to get a lot out of them without a tour guide though, certainly Stonehenge had special guest hosts back in the day, but in modern times the best you get is some colonizer guessing about primitive religions on the his-story channel. I'd even argue that having a family member who retained connection throughout the dark times, is far more important than having a sculpture to remind you of the ancient ways. I've only got one personal case study though, even if it is the most sacred Sun Dance.

If we keep going with the idea that our disconnection is inevitable, then I'd have to assume that it is planetwide. I know first hand that the disconnection of the colonized is far more exaggerated than that of the indigenous, I still kinda think they're responsible for it all, but maybe they didn't maliciously start the rampage, maybe they just lost their way of remembering who they were. So assuming that we all started getting drowsy at the same time, we'll also assume that the connected cultures planned ahead a bit, even if they didn't do the whole cosmic calendar routine. Indigenous cultures held ceremony, rituals passed down through the millennia, ways to dissolve the ego and regain connection, I've also heard them called the "original instructions", and there are major similarities among spiritual rites from around the globe.

Could they have been original teachings from before our species split up? Passed down through eons of ancestors who are now the soil of the Earth? Or perhaps gifts from beyond to help us choose the right path?

These ceremonies of energy flow are emceed by the most connected to the cosmic vibration, and the handed down traditions tune the participants to the planet, as they help them to walk in a good way. And the Sun Dance, the most impactful Lakota ceremony, revolving around the creator of our local unicycle, and primarily intended to convert negative energy into a positive vibe, as it is then shared with the rest of the world. When they were given this ceremony, they were told that through this healing they will convert the darkness into light, and their prayer vibrations will return harmony and balance to the Earth. Better get a good night's sleep, I guess.

Wen' de ya ho, Wen' de ya ho,

Wen' de ya, Wen' de ya,

Ho ho ho ho,

He ya ho, He ya ho,

Ya ya ya

-Cherokee sunrise song

"I love you sun"

*******

Not sure if the Sun was up late last night or what, but I beat him to his own dance. A little chilly out this morning, especially considering the unrelenting heat we're anticipating as we navigate this circular ceremony, and considering the minimal attire that each dancer has clad themselves in. The dancers are barefoot, men are topless, and both sexes wear long skirts over their lower halves. Heads, wrists and ankles are circumferenced by rings of ceremonial Sage, a measure to prevent opposing energies from affecting the building prayer vibrations of the dancers. The dancers will not touch another human over the next four days, if they must lead one another, they will use the Sage rings to offer guidance. They each carry an Eagle bone whistle, a thin tonemaker that they must exhale every single breath through - not as easy as it sounds. Most also carry a ceremonial fan made out of an Eagle's wing, a sacred instrument of prayer and energy that can help to bring healing to the people.

Boom boom, boom boom, the heartbeat of Unci Maka grows louder, a drumful of voices reach to the sky with a unified message, we are here to pray.

Harvey enters the Sun Dance arbor armed with an Eagle staff - his conductors baton for the upcoming vibrational orchestration. He was pursued by a few assistants to the Sun Dance chief, followed by the men, and finally the women. The dance itself would hardly fit into any colonized categorizations of cha cha, it was really just a simple two step routine, left left, right right, it's strength came not from the fancy footwork, but from the collective choreography of their combined vibrations.

The group moved sunwise around the arbor, facing outward in each direction for an extended amount of time, always dancing, always praying, concentrating their flow to the single antennae in the center, our Sun Dance tree, and regularly prompted to raise their arms both in praise to the tree, and as an active method of transferring their internal energy to this cosmic collector. There are going to be lots of rounds like this, four days of them, most with a specific intent and intense specifics, like this year's three Eagle dancers.

*******

Let's give it up for sacrifice. One of the big twelve, so you know it's important, but what's it really about? Growing up I had a book that talked about sacrificing one of God's own, like Mary's little Lamb, to that very same God. Now, I understand that Lamb to be as much a piece of God as I, and I'm in no position to slaughter another in order to beg for my own salvation, though I do offer a spirit plate to the other side of the table.

Sacrifices must be made in the name of progress, like the sheep, the pawns, the unsuspecting public whose domain is dwindling. They must also be made in the name of standing up to the destructive progression, like the great Lakota warriors who sacrificed their lives for the people and for Unci Maka, Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and now a whole new generation of Lakota warriors who are standing up to the exact same monster. Except they brought backup this time.

We know the sacrifice of another is superficial at best, the whole point of it is to give a piece of yourself up for the greater good, your energy, your vibration, and to not be looking for anything in return. Like sacrificing creature comforts, those that I've never seen anything classified as a 'creature' ever using. And once you understand the amount of creatures that make the ultimate sacrifice for your nuclear powered comfort level, it starts to get a little warm in here when we cut the AC all the way down.

Certainly sacrifices to be made in order to break free of capitalism, I meant that on a personal level, but don't let me hold you back. Living a no money lifestyle is not necessarily convenient, though it does magically leave space for some pretty convenient coincidences, but expect to be walking a lot.

Sacrifice my God-given able body's renewable resource to save from adding another stinking car to the road? In a second. Plus, that cuts a lot of costs right out of the gate. No phone, obviously, why would anyone halfway revolutionary want a wiretap in their pocket anyway? No house or anything, but don't really need it, after Standing Rock I gave away everything I owned and generally prefer to sleep outside. I travel with my couple of items, and that's all I got, but I'm under no delusion of having zero baggage.

I may not touch it, but the money machine turns in my name, it still burns oil, it still pollutes the water, it still mistreats our plant and animal brothers. Just because I don't buy it, if I allow another to do their good deed for the day, then I've just defeated the whole point of trying to live with minimal footprint. I can't simply tell myself that it counts against their tab of plastic containers brought into this world, as I clear my own conscience of consequence. That math just doesn't hold up once you've taken money out of the equation.

At Ben's, we were close to living with zero plastollution, only checking into the system for the most auxiliary of items, and we probably could have cut those back as well. But what made all that possible? Well, money. He had worked for it, traded his life energy, as well as the energy of the racehorses he trained, and in return received enough financial compensation to enable himself to purchase the title to the land he had already been working. Expensive piece of paper, took a bunch of those other paper scraps to trade for it, but apparently this title of the entitled transforms its possessor into the supreme law of the land. (But I thought that was treaties?)

And Benjamin was surely as just a ruler as the land had ever seen, at least since the original occupants had been evicted, probably far more fair to his subjects than the capitalist he'd taken over from. And then he quit the cash game, made enough to walk away from civilization and begin living in a good way, the low impact lifestyle that he'd known all along was imperative to the health of our planet. But he had to make that money first.

Plenty of people have the dream of escaping the Rat race to live off the land out in the middle of nowhere, and maybe one day, but the only way to ever do it is to commit a lifetime of labor, all in the name of escaping this laborious way of life. It might not be pretty, whichever branch of colonization your career falls under, but if you do your job obediently, then once you've used up all of your vibrant years to spread our message of destruction, you'll be free to disappear into the wilderness. If there's any left.

Sounds hard enough to escape the money pit when you can build a ladder out of dollar bills, most don't have that luxury though, or any luxury at all really, it seems that a majority of our maximized population endure a life of minimal means. It's one thing to feel indebted to the system until your SUV is paid off, or once you have enough to buy some ecosystem and install a pool, almost there and then you can float your way through life. But what if there was no end in sight as you work two jobs that still don't total a living wage, and just so that you can rent a roof to put over your family's head? How could someone struggling to keep their head above water, while desperately clinging onto the bottom rung of the socioeconomic ladder, ever stand a chance of surviving as the rising water levels threaten our entire species?

They don't, they were never meant to, our systematic philosophy of low prices at any cost, requires that a lower class of fellow humans must suffer so that we may meet our excessive expectations. How could so many people be blinded to the true cost of doing business? How could someone live this extravagant lifestyle of convenience once they realize the broken backs it's built upon? Well, it'll be my privilege. My white privilege.

*******

This one makes the white people uncomfortable sometimes, defensive, even more so than the truths about indian massacres and police shootings. No need to get worked up, it's not your fault that you're white, you never slaughtered another race of people, you worked hard for everything you ever got, anybody can work that hard and pull themselves out of the slum, it's not your fault that everyone else is a lazy bum.

And I only use the colonial label of 'white people', because of its socially accepted connotations. My own caucasian skin tone has no effect on my current path of re-indigenizing, or the dissonance I feel from the dominant culture of our current civilization. The more accurate terminology for the privileged few who hold the keys to unlocking the cages of the many, would be 'those born of settler descendance.'

Hard to argue an advantage when your forefathers wrote the handbook for the control grid, which just so happens to be written in your king's language, or maybe it's just coincidence that the descendants of colonization are the collegiates calling for continued colonization. So we could replace the phrase 'white people' for the sake of continuing the comfort of the white people, but that would drastically increase my word count, and I'm just a lazy old Earth-lovin hippie.

See, I'm on your side, I'm a white dude too, for years I worked hard to save enough money to go to college to pursue my dream of becoming a broke musician. Easy to deny a leg up in life as I lived in sketchy neighborhoods where I was in the minority, but I was the only one on the block privileged enough to dream of a way out.

There was that one dude who had a dream that time, a fantasy of equality, and ever since the civilization rights movement, I'm pretty sure it's been fair and square for all the colors of the medicine wheel. Now, it would certainly be hard to deny that up until that point, the system had been a little rigged. We did have the whole slavery thing, not the most optimal starting position, but somehow still ahead of the fate of the obviously inferior indian peoples. So yeah, there for a while we kept humans in chains, our bad, but now you guys are free - to become lower-class citizens of a system built on white supremacy.

I'm not talking about the dunce cap wearing band of bigots who openly share their closed minded opinions, they're just another instrument of the empire, another herd of cattle used to keep the sheep separated. They were being oppressed too, as were all of the working class, then they were handed a convenient scapegoat to blame for the declining prosperity, an even lower class citizen who had way less rights than even the trashiest white person. So no rules basically, the kops were in the klan, and now these poor white folk finally had someone to take their aggression out on. Musta made them forget their own troubles, definitely made them blind to the big picture, but I'm pretty sure their white Jesus bible approved of hating blacks, so they hanged out most every weekend.

But this supreme small-mindedness wasn't a new thing, our country was built on european superiority before it was even built, obviously caucasians are a far more evolved being than any savage indigenous types. That kinda goes without saying, even the least racist of the ruling class have to agree about the supremacy of the civilized. Certainly it's no sin to slaughter such a lowly lifeform as we overlay the foundation of high society. Just making the world a better place is all. For us at least.

So thirteen rich european families took all the money they'd made by stealing spices from sacred lands, and invested in a new business plan, a new model of corporate capitalism, a start-up that took the country by storm. The Virginia Company was now open for business. White owned, white operated, and most assuredly we only serve whites at our counters. Sounds like my segregated south, but this was back in 1606, and they kept it up for a hundred and seventy years, and even then they simply changed their name and began using independent contractors. They kept the same ownership, as well as their white collar management, but now they could operate on a nationwide scale, the company would now be called, "the united states of america." The America Corporation.

I could go an about this for a while, already did once, and I might yet, but right now I'm just digging into the depths of a country's white creamy filling. So right out of the gate, rich white men wrote the company bylaws, and since they got the only vote, it stayed that way. Rich white men had the privilege of prioritized plantation politics, gotta keep the one percent happy so they can trickle down on the rest of us, good thing they own 83% of the stock market. The laws were all written in their best interests, because they wrote them, and they generated a generational game plan of passed-down perpetuity.

The sons became even more powerful, even though they hadn't worked near as hard for it, but the rich white men were the only ones raised for this type of work, so by default, we still lived under a white flag of defeat. And rich white sons were the only ones privileged enough to attend the earliest colleges, which made them the only ones qualified to do important stuff, like own businesses, or filibust the floor over the preferred profits of a conflicting business law. And this cycle continued as rich white men got richer (and maybe whiter) because they were the only ones writing the rules.

*******

Then the slaves caught that train to freedom. No longer the property of a supposedly supreme being who believes that a piece of paper can prove ownership over life. So they should start living it up pretty soon, right? Maybe the world's still a little rigged against them, but as long as they work hard, they should be able to come up out of poverty and make something of themselves. Resume's not looking that good, it's been a cotton picking minute since they've done anything other than field work, so I guess their new found freedom comes complete with a callused career of cultivation. Hard to put a kid through college on a farmhand's salary, especially since they weren't allowed to attend anyway, so they passed down a lineage of servitude as the rich whites continued to build an empire.

They, of course, had come from a land of strong heritage, a generational connection to their Odudua, Mother Earth, Unci Maka, a way of life full of prayer and song and drum and love. Definitely not good for business. We tried our best to whitewash their inheritance, a little ethnic cleansing, same deal as with the natives really, no songs or praying or even your own Earthbound language, or we'll kill you. Took their names and gave them ours, explains why I've met more black people with my last name than white. :( And more Washingtons and Jeffersons too. Oh, and they're definitely not allowed to read, you never know what kind of uprising could come about from ingesting the words of a revolutionary.

But now they were free to become an even lower class citizen of a system specifically built to inhibit their survival. Hard to deny the privilege experienced by someone born into the family farm franchise, free to enjoy a carefree childhood, brought up with the etiquette required by white society in order to be a part of white society. Sent off to school to study under white professors about the wonders of civilizing the world in the image of our white God, only ever knowing a world of inequality where whites run the show, and that's the way we wanna keep it. We're better than they are, the laws are pretty clear about that one, so don't feel bad exploiting these lesser humans in the name of expanding our empire. Why, they can't even read.

The privileged considered their eliteness a birthright, an unquestioned destiny of greatness, that's just the way it was. They had only ever known a life of excess, with little thought for the human suffering required to make it happen, but they were still 'good people.' Hmm... I guess that pretty much describes current day americans too, go figure.

And so the Freemans rent a place down the street, 'rent' itself being a contrived Ponzi scheme designed to disable the working class, but I got a whole thing on that coming up later. Plenty of other disadvantages to an underprivileged birthwrong, like the rampant racism of the entire world around you. Business owners and authority figures certainly playing their part in keeping you down, and that's not even counting their klub meetings, but the hate is in the eyes of the common man too.

Just because the north won, don't think that an entire society built on the lashed backs of blacks is gonna be buddy buddy with their new neighbors. We were actually kind of upset that we lost. You could say that this depth of racism was just in the backwards south, but that kinda feels like a copout considering that the south was where all the black people were. It was where this new sub-human class of laborer entered the workforce at cutthroat wages, which for some reason had a negative impact on poor whites, creating ill will towards the newcomers, who in actuality had the most shared interests with their own sociopolitical group.

So nobody liked them, everybody hated them, made 'em eat bugs and stuff, ew, and certainly never considered considering them equals. So junior grows up only ever knowing oppression, and all they can teach him is unskilled labor, so guess what bud, you're gonna grow up to be an unskilled laborer. Just another repeating cycle, and one pretty similar to the working class whites, except that black folks weren't pre-qualified for a fair shot at a loan from a white banker, who was the son of a white banker, who was the son of a white banker.

*******

But most whites weren't bankers either, we lived minimally and worked excruciatingly hard, only in the last few generations have we seen the rags to riches story come to life. Our grampas were dirt poor, and had to work their whole life away as they built a name for themselves, though the bank loans didn't hurt. And our fathers, with either a hand-me-down enterprise or a cosign on a college fund, plus they could just ask pops for a small business bankroll. Then our generation, the ones that get a car at sixteen and drive to a minimum wage job as a novelty, not as a necessity, kinda sounds a bit privileged to me. In just a few generations of come-uppance, through a small scale mirroring of the empire building elite - amassing money, knowledge and power - we transformed from the lower class to the consumer class.

We just did this, recently, and I'm pretty sure we had a head start. So imagine a life not lived on the legacy of your family tree, your roots instead holding you back from forward momentum, and the nepotism of the establishment ensures that you'll never work hard enough to climb the corporate ladder. Generations of whites working towards generational wealth, building a chance at the american dream for their little ones, and building a sense of american privilege at every turn.

As compared to the generations of blacks, resigned to a life of menial labor and minimal advancement, no management, so no benefits, so no inheritance, or insurance, or career to pass down, or credit to extend for college, or basically anything to make the life of your children any better than that of your father. And this is how it went from then til now, as we built a modern society undeniably biased in favor of the white man. A fair skinned kingdom where less than 4% of the fortune five hundred CEOs represent a minority, and even less have served as president.

You're not still caught up on the past being the past are you? You think we've possibly reparated ourselves back to a free and just land of equal opportunity? A place where an eleven-year-old has to join a gang to feel safe on his own block, at least until another police shooting takes away that security too, and good luck finding a real job when your application's always at the bottom of the stack. Or a home loan. Or a good school. Or a fair trial. And then of course, you have the actual KKK to deal with.

*******

Seems like this blast from the past was never actually a bygone, they've been hating the game all along, and now with their first official endorsement of our racephobic president, it seems they've started stirring around a bit. While I was staying with Ben in the east, the KKK protested the removal of a Robert E. Lee statue in charlottesville, virginia. Plus, they brought their partners in hate grime, the neo-nazis and the alt-right. What a fun little bunch. I'm def down for protest and free speech, even from hate mongers who stand on their heritage, though I do doubt that most of the rebel flag toters I've known could name many other historical facts.

Like, perhaps the part about the dukes and general Lee losing the war. As much as some southern white folks are still in denial of defeat, this part's just basic war strategy, we don't honor statues of the leaders we take down. They stand for values that we're willing to risk our children's lives to combat, even if the public is grossly misinformed as to the true nature of the war machine, so I guess that would be like erecting a statue of Osama or Saddam. You might say that's a bit extreme, comparing a defeated war hero to murderous racists with american blood on their hands, who after being funded by the US, saw something in our system of domination that they felt the need to stand up against. But what I consider extreme, is when a current day KKK member kills a counter-protester in public over the removal of a hunk of bronze.

There were more people protesting the protesters than the initial turnout of bigotry, I guess I could see where that might be upsetting to a group's morale. So much so, that a twenty-year-old with a youthful passion for hate, drove right into the crowd of lovemongers, injuring many and killing one young woman. Second degree murder. Over a statue that supposedly doesn't represent hate, only a heritage of hate.

Mr prez even had to speak up against the white supremacy groups, probably upsetting to his loyal supporters within their ranks, which might be why it took him a few days to even acknowledge any of it. And how much of that was just for show? I mean, this is the dude banning travel for muslims and walling out all of mexico. A man who one said that laziness was a trait of the blacks. He's the one that got our racist underbelly fired back up, and once again made it politically correct to spread hatred in the name of greatness. Considering that I don't believe much that he says, or anybody else in the government for that matter, I'll assume that his initial reaction was not quite as condemning of the rousing rebels.

*******

Not that I'm against rebelling, definitely all about the revolution, we must stand up to the corporate corruption of the united states government. If we don't let our voice be heard in the coming days, we'll soon be silenced into submission as martial law is used to push their agenda even further. However, if somehow we end up losing the battle against tyranny, I don't expect Donny T to erect a statue of me in DC. But then again, I don't expect we'll lose either.

*******

You may not be knowingly racist, but if you're white, then you've experienced a different world than everyone else. An existence of unspoken eliteness, and unless you can acknowledge the depths to which our society is overtly geared towards caucasian domination, then your disbelief of a biased world is just another cog in the machine of systematic oppression. I'm still unraveling the levels of privilege that I take for granted, subtleties that in a colonized white setting, simply seem standard protocol, but from a perspective of the oppressed, are obviously just another spit in the face.

So maybe you get it now, but what good does that do? What can you do with this new understanding of a system that you already knew to be faulty? You didn't ask to be white, you know? It's not your fault that you were born where you were, why is it up to you to change the world into a better place?

Most kings don't choose their fate either, a birthright or a birthcurse, either way, with great power comes great responsibility. They may not ask for it, but because of their inherited privilege, the lives and well-being of an entire nation are in their hands. They could take their privilege and enact tyranny on the lower class. Or they could just turn a blind eye on an empire full of injustice, as they pretend to stand for all. Or perhaps they could rise to the occasion, acknowledge the travesties that their own throne is built upon, and begin the healing process of rebuilding a unified kingdom. If you woke up and realized that you were part of the ruling class, which one of these three kings do you think you'd be?

And how privileged is it for me to keep going on about transitioning to a no money way of life, not owning a thing and sleeping outside, when for plenty of folks, that's just the way it is? Me hating on GMOs and fast food, but what else can a handful of borrowed change put in your kid's belly? I'm so incredibly lucky and grateful to be where I am today, but I'm not naive to the privilege that enabled my journey.

So what will I do about it? I will show understanding, and humility, and patience, as I lead my brothers and sisters to a path of healing. I know that I still have no clue about just how messed up it's all been, but as I share my genuine concern for repairing the generational trauma, and as I share compassion for those who are only victims of circumstance, I pray that the love of our movement will overcome the hate of stagnation.

Or if that's too yadda yadda for you, there's some actual action type things you can do with your new found white savior super power. Acknowledge your privilege, and then own it, denying it only keeps it inaccessible. We have to use our unfair skin color to tilt the biased world into their favor.

First off, if you see something unfair happening, say something. You have a voice. People will listen to you. White people will listen to you. Imagine trying to function in a world where a definite percentage of the population, even in the progressive cities, will treat you differently than anyone else, up to and including the complete refusal to acknowledge your existence altogether. Geez, probably gonna be tough to acknowledge the privilege too, huh? Tough to grasp the psychological effect it would have to experience a lifetime of being unseen, because if you have white skin, you've simply never experienced anything like it.

So speak up. Don't let racism be ignored. Share another perspective when your civilized community says something that they don't even realize is offensive. Back up your brother of another color with affirmation if you see him unfairly targeted. Share the message with your friends list and spend time enlightening your family about the privileges they've always known, you do know them better than anyone else. But not in a combative way, that never works, always from a place of love and understanding.

Speak about white privilege openly, that's the way to bring change, we need awareness among the only race that can do anything about a system built in their own favor. Make it a household term, not something that makes people squirm. It's not something to be ashamed of, to the point of denying the blatantly obvious truth, it's something to see for what it is, to objectively acknowledge the faults in the system, and to use our voice to create a world where everyone feels welcome.

Still not enough for you? Need some stunts? Well, you could stand between the militarized police and whichever oppressed population they're threatening in your neck of the woods. It's everywhere. Do some research.

Look at the banks too. Divest. Pull out your money and credit from financial institutions that fund oppression, speak to your employer about divesting, speak to your city council. Some water protectors have already gotten several major cities to divest from the inhospitable company of Wells Fargo, from Seattle's $3,000,000,000, to the little known town of New York City and their entire pension fund. Keep this going.

Not only will banks listen to the white populous, so will senators, and news outlets, and the legal system. And protest passersby who take an extra moment to look at what your message is all about, because you're white, and you care about this, so maybe it affects them too. White lives matter. White lives can actively affect change on our broken caste system, we have to, we're the only ones that can. It may take a second to see the ways you can help, the avenues where you have an advantage that you can put in their corner, it's tough to fully understand where we're so privileged, because it's completely ingrained into the foundation of everything we've ever known.

The first step is simply opening your heart to the understanding that not everyone's path is all fun and games. You could follow that up with basic changes to your own mindset, take some time to realize the privilege, at the least be aware of it and even grateful for the good fortune, otherwise you're just taking it for granted as your birthright of superiority. And maybe, if you honestly look at the social impact of our inherited way of life, you'll feel compelled to sacrifice your own convenience for another's human rights - sure sounds mighty white of you.

*******

And looks like I've conveniently circled back to 'sacrifice' as I weave a tale around our sacrificial circle. There'll be no Lambs or virgins or sons of God to offer up to the gods. Here, the dancers will sacrifice themselves for the good of the community. Maybe not a volcano or anything, but four days of solar flaring is gonna take a lot out of them, although it fills them with so much more throughout their entire walk of life. Plus, they're gonna bleed. They're going to physically sacrifice their own flesh.

At various points throughout the ceremony, each dancer will eventually pierce their chest on either side with a pair of pegs, often a set of Eagle talons. Like, they'll take a big pinch of skin and stick it all the way through, fairly deep, and then comes the painful part. Before the dancers lifted up the tree into its central location, they each tied a long rope somewhere near the top. The rope is then tied to those two pegs, the dancer prepares by digging his prayer in even deeper, then he leans back from the tree to pull tension on the line, and all of his weight eventually tears the talons through his flesh. Doesn't leave a scratch, leaves a hole. Veteran dancers don a chest full of scar tissue, daily reminders of their commitment to this way of life. Knowing the humbling sensation of a simple sweat lodge, I can only imagine the place of prayer necessary to get through the ceremony in one piece.

And this is just the basic entry level package, your Sun Dance experience is completely customizable with a variety of sacrificial rites to put your own spin on this years revolution. We're here to pray for the people, to give ourselves over to spirit as we build the energy of the community, and the sacrifices made strengthen the intent of the entire circle. Like Eagle dancing, one of the biggest commitments you can make, an upgrade that transforms every step of the dance into another level of giving yourself back to your creator.

There were three Eagle dancers this year, one of which was a spiritual counselor along my path, we'll call him Greg, and after the first round of the dance, they were all three put in their place. They were pierced with their pegs, maybe even a little deeper than usual, because they would remain tied to the tree for the entirety of the four day ritual. Stepping high with every beat of the drum, with a thirty foot rope connecting their flesh to the top of our antennae, a direct connection of energy as the rope bounces and tugs with every movement. The untethered participants take breaks between rounds in the shade, but the Eagle dancers remain under the heat waves of the sun, and some stayed through the nights too.

*******

What a barbaric ritual of uncivilization, and you're gonna try to convince me that somehow this Lakota way of life has any type of merit over our progressively privileged life of pleasure? Do you think people are ever going to accept a social structure built on bloodshed? This is just too gross to think about, like the childhood disfigurements of a sweatshop accident, or the grotesque abnormalities within a tyson cage match, or police brutality, or perpetuated gang violence, or an entire card catalog of war crimes against humanity. Or the ancestral trauma of a people whose entire way of life was destroyed, uprooted, imprisoned, tortured, and exchanged for the greed of the founders of ours.

I'm not gonna ask anybody to sacrifice their skin color for another, it's really one of those things you have to come to on your own anyway, but wouldn't it be cool if the Lakota tradition of giving a piece of yourself back to Unci Maka, inspired in you a desire to give up a little excess for the good of somebody else? Aho.
"We are the gods of the atoms that make up ourselves,

but we are also the atoms of the gods that make up the universe"

-Manly P. Hall

*******

I was still on the hook to cook, the dancers may not be eating for a few days, but everyone else brought their Lakota appetites. Most of them brought some kitchen contributions too. Sun Dance is for prayer, not for profit, this is not a festival, so there's no food truck or hired catering. Instead, the community will come together in a good way, sharing resources as they reconnect to what's really important. Makes the concrete menu tough when new stuff keeps showing up, which is exactly why I prefer one with wings.

Although some at home may think that we're at some kind of indian dance party, there was certainly no cover here, you don't have to pay to pray. Harvey doesn't collect a salary. Not for this ceremony, or for the rest of his medicine manning. He understands the disconnection between a walk of prayer and a path of profit. He relies on the support of the people, those that he selflessly offers his spiritual guidance to. And without a mandatory weekly fee for God to hear them, they are more than eager to contribute to the frequency of the ceremony. He also leads a humble way of life. No frills. Just some coffee and smokes and medicine, and maybe a little ancient aliens, but I'd imagine his possessionless path is checkered with plenty of adventure, mystique, and certainly good fortunes along the way.

He's no saint. He's had to face his own demons on the hill. He wouldn't be as strong of a leader if he hadn't. He had his own bout with the bottle, but that's in the past, and because of his experience, he has an intimate understanding of the sickness plaguing his people, which helps him to bring healing to its victims. Hard to imagine any good coming from indiscretion as he strayed from the Red Road, as he forgot to walk in prayer, as he set down the chanupa and picked up his old habits, as he went through a period of darkness, disconnection, an adversity that pushed him to grow spiritually strong in order to survive, back towards the light, bringing healing to himself and to the people, preparing him for the work ahead, returning to the Sun Dance way of life with a new perspective of the suffering of his family, as he rejoined his center with a more complete understanding of life. Sounds like another cyclical journey of self-improvement to me, a wavelength that I'm not gonna be able to hear, so I'll just assume that his buzz was part of the universal underscore. Everything happens for a reason.

*******

Oh does it now? Everything? All the things? Do go on. If you flipped through my first attempt at clever quippery, then you couldn't have missed the overstatement, the author of that cold mess wholeheartedly believed in the reasons for the things. He's also as open minded as he is wholehearted.

Recently, a friend challenged the philosophy and pointed out the logical fallacy. She was with me in my sentiment, but had seen the adage used in an unhealthy way. I use it as I attempt to fathom the unfathomable, to put finite words to the complexities of the Great Mystery, Wakan Tanka, to understand my understanding of the intricate interconnectedness of even the most minute details of our cosmic egg. I use it to get through upsetting times, a reminder of the bigger picture turns a setback into an evolution, and I often assume the reason to be a much prayed for lesson in something or other. I use it to grow, to evolve, but it could just as easily be used as a cop out.

Oh, everything happens for a reason, remember, so I'm not really to blame for all that stuff that happened. I'm pretty much free to run wild without consequence, I can break whatever (and whoever) and know that there must be some reason out there, otherwise it wouldn't have happened. Guilt erased. Or there's the ones who need to know the reason, or those who want to find the signs in everything, not stopping until they've found the meaning of tacos, or projecting their own delusions into the illusion of a world around them.

I see the conundrum. The way in which an english translation of an unspoken Lakota understanding, is unable to properly convey the true philosophy intended by the phrase. I've seen my own past in such a way that I became aware of a guided path, things had happened for a reason, coincidental details and synchronistic encounters all leading to the same conclusion. Now.

I can't quite describe how it felt, but I know in my heart that my life was woven with purpose. There is a reason. For me. For my journey. For my family. For my friends. For my sacrifice. But that's far from everything. I think that even if you blindly believe in this deluded daydream, a divine roadmap of my own timeline, the best we can confirm so far is that "some things happen for a reason." Or even "lots of things happen for a reason", this would be enough to explain the uncanny connection of events throughout my own life. The big stuff all mattered, some small stuff too, but if every single thing was for a reason, then every single footprint would affect the encompassing world. Hmm...

I don't get caught up looking for reasons, the whole point is that it's too cosmically complex to figure out, instead, I trust that the universe has it under control and I'm free to go with the flow. I don't need to know the reason behind everything, that would be way too much information that I really don't care to keep up with, plus it might not even have anything to do with me. It's pretty self-involved to assume that every detail of the infinite idea has to have something to do with you, or even to do with your species. Perhaps a reasonable footprint is just the cause to affect change on the living paths around you.

And it's no excuse. Assuming no responsibility for your fated fouls, chocking your wrongs up to some mysterious reason and thinking it's all good, it might just be that you need to experience the consequences of those actions in order to learn valuable lessons of growth, to gain the insights that would have saved you the trouble in the first place. If I feel like I messed up, then obviously I have something to learn yet, even if it's that I'm not perfect. It's no escape from guilt, but it is a path to push personal evolution, and even if your little humility lesson wasn't the reason for the season, that doesn't make it any less real in your heart.

I've messed up in the past, hurt people, burned bridges, destroyed relationships with loved ones, things to regret as they weigh on my heart. I know that beating myself up over the past is not a healthy way to deal with the guilt, nor is it doing anything on a cosmic energy level to spread good into the world, but it was my fault. Unless everything happened for a reason and this is just the way it is supposed to be, nobody to blame, because this is God's will. Well that certainly doesn't sound right, how could we have free will to do anything, if every step is preprogrammed with precision? I know that I can't change the past, nor that I'd ever want to, even after knowing all the pain I've caused. I've seen enough time travel snafus to know that what's done is done, I'm so very grateful to be where I am today, so there's no way I would jeopardize this path with a hope that I could do any better the second time around.

The past is the past, for whatever reason it worked out that way, even if the reason was something I could have prevented. But I didn't, this is how it is, I can't kick myself as I wish for a redo, I can only move on from here with the lessons that this experience has given me. I can't erase the negative energy I've left in my wake, but I can live every moment with love in my heart as I spread healing everywhere that I go. I can't change the past, it happened that way for a reason, the reason may have been my action (or inaction), or maybe the reason was a longer term strengthening of relationships through cyclical adversity, all I can really do is change the future, by living in the now.

What can I do right now to repair the damage I've done to the universal scale of light vs dark? If I can actually heal the wounds I've personally created, great, do it, sounds like a plan, but not every upset can be turned around with words. Plus, I'm not even in contact with everyone I've crossed on my path, possibly out there paying forward the pain to another, so the best I can do is to carry that experience in my heart as I try to live today in a good way. I remind myself of the lessons I've learned, the ways in which I've grown, which have evolved my perspective to a point that I understand my impact on the world around me, and I am unwilling to perpetuate the negative energies which have allowed me to hurt others in the past. Whether we're on the highway to heaven, or just a bunch of random space dust spiraling into chaos, if you assume that the reason for everything is to prepare you for anything, then you might just be ready for the next thing.

*******

Next thing I know, the Sun Dance is in full swing, steps synchronized with the hilltop heartbeat, Harvey extends his Eagle staff to the tree, the Sun rains down, the dancers persevere, their prayers carry them beyond their body's limitations, their connection grows as their ego fades, they humble themselves to the tree of life as they find this way of walking with strength in their hearts, and some can see the energy starting to build around the prayer covered Cottonwood in the center of their sunwise orbit.

Charlie's turn to pierce. I've already been dancing under the shaded arbor behind him in support, backing him up with my own vibrations, back and forth between praying and cooking, and it just so happens that I am present for this moment of living in the now with my brother. He surrenders as his rope grows taut, his skin gives way as his prayers take him to another place, here he may very well receive a vision from the spirit world.

He prays for the people, this way of life is one dedicated to servitude, and his sacrifice strengthens his contributions to this ceremony of universal healing. The Eagle dancer's energy is multiplied by their fortitude, as they endure four days of adversity. The strongest of the spiritual warriors will also perform one of the most sacred rites of the ceremony, the pulling of the Buffalo skulls, and look ma, no hands. May take a few rounds before the skulls have pulled them through it, that part's up to the spirits, and their commitment to prayer has made their connection to heart even stronger.

The Buffalo skull is sacred, houses its own spirit, so we carry it in a sacred manner. We have one of the skulls from the inipi at Standing Rock, we also have a new one down by the cook shack. They're not something that should be bought or sold. Like most sacred elements of Unci Maka, they should be given freely with a personal exchange of unifying energy. You can't pay to pray, and anyone who asks you to, is only commoditizing your heart vibrations. You can't buy in, that's the easy way and this is a hard road, but if you commit to a path of praying in this way, then once your journey has prepared you to protect, a skull might just coincidentally come into your care.

*******

So don't go ebaying a Buffalo skull, you really oughta do that kinda thing in person. That goes with most things though, a nice local face-to-face interaction should always be preferred, a personal exchange of energy, but we've devolved into an isolated state of disconnection. We'd rather order it online, save from having to speak to another human, let alone share energy with them. Burns a little midnight oil to get the instant gratification of overnight shipping, but not to worry, now they have drones capable of delivering payloads to the people.

Local stuff just feels better really, seems to have a little more love in it, a stronger connection to the surrounding landscape, a more vibrant vibration that poured out as whatever it is, was on its short path to you. Especially the food. Big time. Wild, obviously, that's the cream of the non-crop, but even if you're still stuck in the machine, the shared microbiology of local produce is better for you. Unless of course you live in a farmland food desert, lost in a Corn maze as you struggle to find anything to eat that's not poisonous.

Eating local is also way healthier for Unci Maka, who happens to be a little under the weather right now - your mother is sick of all this nonsense. It's not even just the gas that it takes to transport a tropical delicacy to a privileged porch step, the entire concept of export is just a way for the takers to pilfer and plunder another land's essence. To commoditize a piece of Unci Maka and market it worldwide, from the spice trade to the blood soaked conflict minerals in your cell phone, it's simply not sustainable.

That original Mango grove was plenty to sustain the web of life entangled with its own vibration, a perfectly fit component of a locally balanced breakfast, as it fortifies against the ailments of that particular bioregion. And then some white guy on a boat shows up and just falls in love with the fruit, they just must try these back home, so he starts up Mango madness and it's a hit.

We'll assume that he didn't simply murder the Mangonese people and steal the fruit, that could never happen in a civil society, why maybe he even offered them a fair exchange of currency, a piece of paper that someone somewhere says is worth something, enabling them to wake up and join the developing world of debt. Even with colonial compensation, every export brings further devastation to homelands around the globe. The Mango grove evolved hand-in-hand with its neighbors, it's biological relatives, they all grew up together and they each play a vital role in the community. One of the Mango's roles is to feed the tropical teenagers of thousands of hungry species, providing vibrational vitamins to a vibrant variety of life.

So what happens if some guy shows up and starts shipping them to your local grocer? Well, there's no longer gonna be enough to go around. Animals are gonna die. From Bugs to Baboons, these trees supported a complex web of interwoven ecology, which just lost its primary energy source, as this creature called 'human' proclaimed their ultimate superiority and birthright to every morsel of food on their privatized planet. If Mangoes disappear, so do their customary consumers, who no longer benefit the other trees of the tropics, who then start to feel the impact of export.

And even people lose out. If we ship all of the fruit to the privileged, there's a whole human community who has to go without, luckily americans were born the most supreme of the upper echelon and that all seems to sound fair to us. Plus, we like them so much that we're gonna send over a crew to plant even more, now maybe you'll have a chance to survive, if you can climb a fence. No empty farmland available, so we'll just have to make some, and the Mango thrives as it seems to takeover the island by overtaking his neighbors, his buddies, those that understand him the most, his needs, his strengths, those that put the very nutrients into the ground that are necessary for a Mango's complete breakfast.

Now our mango monocrop is king of the world, successfully conquered the entire kingdom, but it's lonely at the top, everyone he could depend on has fallen under his own footprint, but at least our footprint includes a barrage of chemical nutrition, so that should be about the same as a supremely diverse circle of life.

We're so smart. And just look at all this money we're making. Sure, it's completely devastating an entire ecosystem, but we did give a few of them a few dollars to make up for the desolation brought to their entire way of life. The povertization of the people. The land no longer able to provide, like she has forever, so now the poor Mangonese people must rely on some other system of sustenance, like getting a job harvesting Mangoes, so that they can purchase a minimal menu of processed poison, a refined colonial diet from the same elite exporters who stole the Mangoes. Commoditizing pieces of Unci Maka is like selling off your mother's organs, kinda makes me sick too.

*******

So what if there's no money then? What about the barter system? When I speak to people about a no money way of life, I usually get one of a few reactions: lots of those that don't buy it, capitalism or bust; tons that agree, but that's just the way it is; the few that have joined me on a moneyless manifestation; and plenty that think we should be back on bartering. Trading stocks among our peoples, gotta be better than figuring out the dollars, but I do kinda see the downside of trading up.

It's just like if we outsource our employment to an unregulated competitor, if I remove the food supply from the local ecology, then the local ecology won't have enough food. If I harvest more Mangoes than I need, so that I can swap them for Coconut oil, well, now I'm living in excess as others are denied access. I've just converted an ecosystem's livelihood into frybread for one. And I still have all these Mangos, I get to have my fruit and trade it too. I've simply exchanged currency for Mangoes, that I can now use to trade the world, still a commoditization, but at least we don't have the pollution of dirty money.

Or then there's my way, the gifting economy, sharing with your brothers and sisters as you live a loving heart vibration, but even that financial advice could flatten the bottom line. If I harvest extra food in order to give it to out-of-towners, wouldn't it have the same negative effect on my neighborhood? Would I not be gifting away something that simply wasn't mine to give? Selfless indeed. If a Squirrel collected the acorns she needed for winter and then traded the rest for a flat screen, well, how am I gonna bake bread? One species claiming the entire food supply is not an ecosystem, it's an extinction event.

But there's got to be some kind of trick to the trade, plus I have to be able to freely give from my heart as I am compelled to share with my family. I have no property, what's mine is theirs is yours, anything that I can give, I will, right up until I've got nothing left to give.

Ahh... well there's your answer. Plain as a dakota day. I can only give as much as I have. I can only trade what is rightfully mine. I can harvest my fair share, enough to get my family through the winter, and now if I just can't live without an exotic fruit, I think I'm free and clear to pull a swaparoo. I have a personal backstock of calories, which I'm pulling from to swap the roos, but I'll be bringing in a new source of caloric intake, so it should maintain our Goldilocks equilibrium. And I can give my love to my heart's content, out of my own stash, not somebody else's, what kind of gift would that be anyway?

Or I could give the gift of service, a helping hand, some spirals of time that I can dedicate to another. Back at the farm, I used my mechanical inclination to fix the neighbor's planer, zero charge for my minimal labor, and a much welcomed break from droning away on the computer. He wanted to repay me, but I don't accept major credit cards, and I was already living inside an organic cornucopia, guess a hug will have to do. At least until he found out that I love a good cup of coffee, which doesn't organically brew in those parts, so he provided me the fuel to finish typing.

Not quite a trade, though we both benefited from the friendship, but we each would have loved to help a buddy out, regardless of any reciprocity rendered. Now, of course the coffee was imported from some exploited land, and I'll be cutting that out of my diet soon enough, but for now, I'm happy to accept this token from a neighbor who appreciates my path in this world. A gift of doing something nice without expectation, is certainly a more personal present than a stolen Mango, and far more vibrations shared along the way, which might be why there were so many eager volunteers to help out with the ceremony.

*******

The energy inside the circle continued to build, we encompassed the arbor as we supported their prayer, but we were not as connected as the dancers were becoming, so an inner circle of Tobacco ties insulated the growing movement from outside interference. And we smudged, often, every few minutes a little one carried around a can of Cedar and coals as we cleansed the energy around our bodies. I made friends with a lot of the kids through their curiosity of campfire cooking, so I always got a special smirk or something, but they understood the sacred component of ceremony that they were performing.

Especially the Erenbrook children, they'd spent the time since Standing Rock fully engulfed in the Lakota way of life. No possible amount of letters or words will ever properly describe the magic of this family, a fairy tale fantasy of modern day Swiss Robinsons, balancing the most amazing family circle in a round tipi, with our continued mission of saving the world.

We'd begun getting much closer, connecting on so many levels with each of them, their way of life was the most closely aligned with the worldview that was coming together in my own heart. Conversations of agriculture and capitalism that convinced me that I was not alone, for once I'd connected with someone who not only shared my beliefs, but had found a way to live them. And to raise children in modern america with a mindset not of excess and convenience, but a mindful headspace of love and sharing and connection to our home. As well as a dedication to heal her.

They shared one story of their recent travels, an inspiring tale that quenched my thirst for the motivation to mend our mother, they had quite literally protected the water. While spending time on a nearby reservation, they ran across an old spring, a still functioning water source, but it had been grown over by years of forgetting that water comes from somewhere other than the tap. Especially tough to swallow since the tap water is severely polluted on most reservations, up to and including intentional uranium dumping along primary water sources. Yum.

So the Erenbrooks spent a couple of hours making the spring accessible, a free and clear water source for the community, and about that time four boys came running over the hill. Out of breath from a game of tag, they pleaded for water as they approached the good-doers. The athletes were expecting a bottle or something, conveniently candy coated in plastic by the nestle corporation, but unfortunately for them, the CEO of nestle publicly stated that access to water is not a fundamental human right. That's more messed up than lead pipes in a city that's still forcing residents to pay poisonous water bills, yet they've stopped supplying the victims of the municipality with bottled water, while a hundred miles away nestle continues to pump 400 gallons a minute, for free.

Luckily for our boys, some superheroes just happened to have fixed this revolutionary new type of water source, what, you can get water out of here? Out of the ground? They tipped it up and proclaimed that it was the best water they'd ever tasted. It was actual water. Not the obviously impure impostor they'd known their entire life. They were energized, actual water propelling their bodily functions, they felt alive, water is life, mni wiconi.

*******

So they were doing it. Like actually doing it. I'd been locked away writing about doing it, literarily saving the planet, while they'd been out there physically doing it. Healing our own human community so that we will be able to heal those around us. Breaking us free from the chains of capitalism meant to control the human rights that are inherently yours because of your citizenship on this planet. You should not have to pay for water. That is despicable. Gross. And so is the purchased water, dirty from the tap or refined sewage from the store, plus, fluoride guarantees that your vibration remains disconnected as your endocrine system is calcified.

Water is literally life, you are water, it drives you. I know the feeling of drinking water from a mountaintop spring, it's like eating the wild Buffalo, it connects you. It's real, it aligns your vibration with the wavelength of the planet, you feel it pulse through your body as it empowers your mind. Water is life.

And you don't get that feeling from a bottle. You can't buy the vibration of living in a good way. Money can't replace the vibratory connection to your home that is gained through aligning yourself with her local vibrations. Can't replace prayer either. Couldn't have bought my way in here even if I hit the lottery, only through my connection with Unci Maka, was I on the path that brought me here to pray.

And sacrifice, made 'em before and I'll make 'em again, like right now, the Erenbrooks and I are walking to the west side of the arbor to give flesh. To sacrifice a piece of our own skin, cut free and added to the prayers covering the tree, an offering of ourselves to our mother, a commitment to this way of living in harmony with the rest of the Great Mystery. Several Sun Dancers armed with scalpels are performing the ritual, they pinch small pieces of upper arm skin and sever the flesh. It's up to the individual to determine how much flesh to give, how many circular scars they will don on their forward journey. I choose two.

*******

Duality has been at the front of my mind lately, on many levels, good vs evil, us vs them, man vs God, a yin yang spiral that as it spins, grows closer and closer to a complete oneness of gray area. Our ego has separated us from the all inclusive mind of God, the complete works of universal wisdom, but it is only a filter through which we are able to experience the act of evolving back into completeness. Back into God. You are God, we all are, but that's clouded so that you can experience a life of learning, and free will, but it's all right there inside you. We only use a tiny fraction of our brains, what do you think the rest of that stuff is?

The entire universe is the mind of God, expanding consciousness beyond the boundaries of our dream state. And Unci Maka, our all powerful planet, look at her functions and see that they mirror our own, from her worldly cycles to her animal inhabitants, who seem to teach us how to be the best we can. All of this, the complexity of our planet's inner workings and the infiniteness of our cosmic web, that's all inside you. You were made in God's image, not our silly Monkey suits, but our inner workings are scale models of the entirety of everything. We're just one small piece of the fractal Fibonacci sequence that is evolving nothing into all.

The piece of universal spirit inside you, is now subject to the free will of your human body. A human body which is supremely susceptible to conditioning, to environmental conditions that affect the experience that the spirit within will have during this journey into the material. A genetic code lays the framework, then celestial orbits put another spin on it, and from there, the version of you experiencing right now, has come to read this book through a lifetime of decisions based on whatever sensory input you had accumulated at any given time.

We are all the same spirit, the same energy, but depending on the geographic location and socioeconomic standing of your birth parents, we have all lived drastically different lives here on Earth. And that's the point really - to experience - the good and bad, up and down, love and hate, both extremes of the vibration as we find the way to our center, but just imagine how less privileged it would feel to be a syrian refugee living a war-torn life of loss.

We are all the same, but somehow vastly different, even twins with the same parents, stars, and bedroom, still miles apart as their own unique path into this material dimension takes them for a ride that only they will experience. The more journeys to Earth we make, the more complete of a picture we can paint. We should grow stronger because of our differences, but instead, we grow further divided. We only see those who struggle on the other side of the wave, as foreigners, a statistic on the world news, something to fear because they'd never fit into our cookie cutter subdivisions.

Imagine for a second that you are no longer one of 'us,' but one of 'them,' the same spirit you have now, but with an entirely different set of situations guiding the person you grow into. Another language and traditions and family and hardships and friends and catastrophic loss at the hand of the US government. You wouldn't grow into the person you are now, you would grow into someone much more like 'them.'

They are us. We are all the same. We are all related. They just happened to be born in a country that we drop bombs on, and don't have much of a choice in the matter. If only they could teleport to the suburbs and cast a vote to stop blowing up the planet, that's how it works, right? America is blowing up their home because americans voted to do so?

Now, we know that's not true, we never voted on a syrian attack, but perhaps our blind eye to our government's violent oppression of another culture, will lead the particular spirits evolving in those conditions to topple the tyrannical regime themselves.

The US government must be stopped - only we can do it peacefully - the choice is yours.

*******

Woah, that one took a left turn, sorry if you're one of those proud to be americans, very sorry indeed. It's not your fault really, the blinders of nationalism do a pretty good job of brainwashing the followers, plus the doctors of indoctrination wrote the his-story books that framed us as the good guys. We're not. Every war we fight is laden with ulterior motive, even besides the profiteering of political interests. And how can it be righteous to completely eradicate a foreign way of life, full of tradition, prayer, and ancestral teachings, just to force our broken so-called democracy down their throats? Oh, right, that's pretty much what our country was founded on.

The original peoples of 'our' homeland suffered from a similar situation, except that those proud white americans have no interest in moving to syria. We've unleashed a continuous barrage of evils upon those native foreigners who first lived here on Turtle Island, out of fear, and out of some sense of colonial superiority over the uneducated tribesmen.

Uneducated by our history book, but far more knowledgeable about every single system at play on the entire continent, like they could talk to the land or something. Nope, that's too voodoo for me, gotta kill 'em. Or kidnap them like the catholic missionaries did, beat them into boarding schools and brainwash obedience. Between the push to forget and the outright murder of chiefs, spiritual leaders, elders, women and children, we wiped out all they had ever known, and the only symbiotic relationship with the planet that america has ever experienced.

Generations of lost souls, forgotten wisdom of how to live in a good way, which is nearing on impossible with the constantly shrinking reservation boundaries. Borders that keep indians in, concentrated into camps as they are left for dead, but a cage that is unable to keep alcohol out. A new generation is not only disconnected from tradition and prayer, but now they spiral down the genetically predisposed rabbit hole of rampant alcoholism.

And racism at every corner. Or cartoon. The broken rez offers no way out of oppression, no food, no water, no hope, just a sense of being at home, with family. Starving together, but unable to leave the confines of their fictional sovereignty, because who will take care of their mother? And she passes this trauma on to her young ones, both through the way she raises them with the disconnection taught to her, and through her actual DNA.

*******

The Lakota always knew that our actions affect the seven generations following our time, and the seven behind us influence our walk in this lifetime, so we pray and acknowledge their presence in our lives, plus we always offer them a plate of fresh frybread. Even the bible says that the sins of the father will be passed down seven generations, and now science is starting to back up the concept of inherited ancestral DNA trauma. Your DNA changes during your lifetime if you are subjected to intense situations, like the complete annihilation of your entire culture, family, home, and anything harmonious with the world around you, and I'm guessing it's not that pleasant to have such a scar on your genetic coding.

These wounds can be healed, like the wounds of our mother, through our prayers and loving energy, and also through direct action. We can acknowledge the evils of our government and begin to build a new relationship, both as a people, and as a person. Leaving it up to the victims to right the wrongs of their attackers, and continuing to believe that it's not your problem, only keeps a forgotten nation unknown.

Natives lived where you're sitting right now, do you know who? Maybe the least you could do is to stay informed of just how important it was to colonize your town. Once you're actually educated in an accurate american history, I bet you'll feel compelled to share your knowledge when you hear colonial misinformation, as recorded by the victors. And through a continued sharing of truth and understanding of differences, a trail of positive interactions instead of tears, maybe we can repair this breach in the connectedness of humankind.

*******

And we pray. We attune ourselves to the healing vibrations of the planet, we open our hearts in a good way, we sacrifice, and now there is an entire round of the Sun Dance dedicated to healing our people. Healing for a people, and a planet, but for each individual and whatever may be ailing them too. Like Saul, a Lakota veteran who had a heart attack the first night of the Sun Dance, we pray for him, and spoiler alert, he's back in action by the fourth day.

Or my Unci, grandma, not the Earth this time, but one of the Lakota elders who has helped me along my journey, Unci Carolyn, and she's been sick. She was actually on the way here with some other water protectors, when she had to detour to a hospital along the way. They wanted to keep her longer, but she wasn't having it, so she checked out for the night with an IV wrapped up on her arm, she knew exactly what kind of medicine she needed right now.

The arbor fills with supporters looking for healing, some can only make it out for the day, some can hardly stand, and some are just fine in the physical sense but they know that we all have traumas to heal. If you thought your white privilege kept your family tree out of hardship, think again, we all know that bullies are always bullied first, it rolls downhill, we all have stuff to work through.

Harvey and the dancers move sunwise around the crowd, each offering a light dusting with their ceremonial Eagle fan, a concentrated barrage of energy cleansing by the strongest of spiritual warriors, three days into the most intense prayer ritual of the tribe.

This is the Sun Dance. Prayers to the people. Healing to the people. Power to the people. Musta worked, the next day Unci Carolyn was out in the arbor dancing, Sun Dancing. She used to dance before she got sick, and with a new prescription of Tobacco ties, she's all set to bring it home. I dance behind her in support, as I had Ben and Charlie, and Greg as he high stepped his Eagle dance, the rope bouncing with every movement.

Harvey asks the water protector kitchen staff to enter the arbor and pray at the tree, I pray pretty hard, though it'll not be the last time that I share my heart and words with this sacred being. I've got no comment on the content of my silent dialogue, knowing what I now know about writing stuff down, and what I'll soon learn about photographic memories, I think I'd prefer to keep that one to myself. I will share with you that my prayers have been getting answered, the path between then and now has brought me unimaginable growth, but only because I was prepared to do the work, and because I saw the lessons to be learned as I took an honest look at myself.

Sometimes it's tough to feel the transition throughout each step, but when you look back at where you came from, it's astounding to see how you've developed, and how it is somehow a complete manifestation of the many things you've prayed for along the way. It almost seems as though everything has happened for a reason or something.

From hollywood to Sun Dance,

and just wait til "Standing Rock: The Musical."

What an honor for my path to have brought me here,

at this most sacred time,

welcomed by the community with open arms,

and invited to join the family on this spiritual holiday,

better not mess up the frybread though.

*******

Enough of this writing about prayer, can't possibly do it justice anyway, would take some real talent to capture the energy flow of the final day of ceremony, so we'll just say that it was as spiritually impactful as you could possibly imagine. And now I get the chance to cook for my brothers and sisters who have been through the ringer over the last four days. A much awaited hug with Ben and Charlie, Greg and Carolyn, plus I now get to meet the rest of the crew that's been out there praying for me. Like Annette, a long time dancer, and a spiritual channeler. She is tuned to a vibration that allows her to be a conduit to the astral realm, pretty heady stuff, I know, but she shared enough that I'm right there with her.

A group of us went to a nearby park to get in the river and maybe even shower a bit, though I do prefer to keep my Unci Maka on my skin, not some kinda dupont poison. Rumor was that there was a dead Horse in the water upstream, that would certainly contaminate the water, unless it was the contaminated water that killed him, but probably just a rumor to keep dirty hippies away.

We're not scared of death, so we dove in, though we mainly refrained from drinking the water. I was sitting on the sidelines as I conversed with a long lost protector, and as Annette passed by, she complimented the tattoo on my shoulder. It's a tarantula, my first tattoo, I got it right after I turned eighteen and honestly didn't have too much of a reason. My best friend was an artist there, so it was more about getting a tattoo from him, which has since represented that particular era of my life, the spider was just the piece of art on the wall that had called out to me.

Iktomi - the Spider, the trickster spirit. She asked what it meant to me and I shared my story, then I realized out loud that maybe I just hadn't learned what it represented yet, but I bet there was probably some reason that I had felt compelled to take it to the printers. She also felt compelled by it, to share insights into my path, to use her connection to nudge me towards my own. She said that I've been carrying the Spider as a protector against weaving a complicated web of misfortune. It's been keeping me mindful of the relationships I build along my journey, approaching them with caution and intent, not frivolity as I rush to create something that is not sustainable, or which only complicates my existential expedition. That's pretty spot on so far, only a few loves and never rushed it, no bad blood between us, and a large web of friends has seen more crossovers than circular separation. I've still managed to burn a few bridges, but at least until my most recent disappearance into the deep end, I've been pretty successful at spinning a network of interconnectedness.

So Iktomi helped me get here, but where's he taking me? She shared that I have a lot of work ahead, difficult tasks, it's not going to be easy, but as long as I persevere and stay committed to this path, I will be victorious. I figured as much, about the challenges in front of me, nice to know that I'm on the right track though. And a little daunting as I think about what lies ahead, much better to focus on the now. Or later, back at Sun Dance, where Annette had more message to share.

*******

We were sitting around a protector's campsite while she was speaking on another's difficult road. As I often do, I was fiddling with sticks and stuff, peeling back bark and dissecting branches, just a habit of a natural born messer. As she finished one message, she turned to me, "And you, you have such an incredibly strong creative energy. And you're always trying to figure it all out, to put it all together, but there's a lot to it, you have to be patient. Don't worry, you're going to get there, you'll find everything, but it's a long road."

Holy... Well that just resonated with me pretty big time, and reassured me that this philosophical excavation into who I am, is actually headed somewhere. She also told me, as well as another protector who hardly ever seems to stop, that it was time for a vacation. We needed some downtime. Some rest. Some healing. But, is that not what this is?

This may be a camp out with an official healing capacity, but we were here to work, not just physically, this level of praying takes a lot out of you on many other levels. Just being on the rez is exhausting enough, constantly wrapping my head around the multifaceted oppression experienced within these walls, so just imagine what it feels like to live here. Another dancer, Elaine, is a social worker for the reservation community. Charged with offering counsel to those with little hope for anything better. Dependent on the system for sustenance, unable to leave and forego their minimal rations as they attempt to find work in the supremely racist neighboring cities, and very few jobs available on a reservation with 87% unemployment, where the only ones with the money to capitalize are those who sold out to colonization.

The tribes are divided into 'haves' and 'have-nots,' the nepotism of tribal leadership has ensured a separation of classes, racism is real, even on the rez. And several times I heard the phrase, "like crabs in a bucket," everyone trapped in the same predicament, fighting for a way out, and when someone finally seems to be getting somewhere, everyone latches onto their momentum and the whole lot of them topple back to the ground floor.

It's excruciatingly sad, a thoroughly defeated people, resigned to forgetting that they ever knew another way, completely caught up with the depression of alcohol and the impression of inferiority, while they go hungry in what should be an abundant cornucopia of natural nutrition.

So many of them growing up in broken homes, not because of break-up, but because of lock-up. America accounts for 5% of the global population, yet somehow we contain 25% of the world's incarcerated. And Lakota inmates make up 35% of the prisoners in South Dakota, but only 10% of the general population, a much larger percentage of racists round out the numbers, especially among the law enforcement officers who lie in wait at the reservation border. It's not safe to leave the reservation, to visit a country built on the genocide of your ancestors, to interact with those who can turn a blind eye to the truth, as they perpetuate the hate in order to pretend they carry no guilt.

We don't like blacks, even though we brought them here. We don't like mexicans, even though we stole their economy. We don't like muslims, even though we funded Al-Qaeda. And we certainly don't like indians, even if we did move into their neighborhood. Starting to see a pattern here... maybe it's us. Maybe we are the close-minded hatemongers who are destroying any hope for unity among humankind.

Certainly not all of us, and probably not most who've read this far, but even we must acknowledge the unfair shot at a fair existence experienced by every single person of color in this country. The few that have flourished cannot be used as proof of equal opportunity, and more often than not, they've had to succumb to the white man's world to even get that far. A world that has sewn hatred of anything different than the white walls of hollywood. A world which makes it politically correct to assume a bigoted superiority over every other animal on the planet, especially those silly savages. Even among the progressive, it's still taken as common sense that we have every right to whitewash our colonized way of life over top of another culture's grave. At least the KKK is honest about their superiority complex.

It's easy to feel no direct effect of racism when you have your eyes closed to the world around you, when you allow yourself to live in denial as to the true cost of living in excess, and to those who have to pay the price. How much of your household was made in china? Have you ever actually thought about the inside of a sweatshop? How old was the dark skinned kid who picked your Coconut? And how many did he get to eat? How many indigenous americans were murdered under your feet so that you could own this 'property.' And how many will you allow them to continue to murder as you turn a deaf ear to what is simply not your problem? I bet as long as they keep gas prices down, they can keep gassing whomever they want. And everyday that you gas up and mindlessly drive to work, is another day that you could have been enacting real change into a system that you admit is not perfect, yet you vote for it anyway.

What if today's the day? The day that you do something about it. The turning point of your transition into a new way of life. A life of fighting for what is right. Even if it seems like too great a task, you are empowered by the knowledge that you are not alone in this. And driven by the understanding that it's better to fight to the end, than to just give up and let the destruction engulf you.

So what if today's the day? No need to finish reading this mess if you've already been inspired to act. And what if today was the only day? What if all of your memories were implants so that you could experience this single day as a human? Are you living it to the fullest? Living in the now? Or what if you were caught in that Groundhog trap, reliving this moment over and over? Would be a pretty dumb movie that cataloged the continuous daily grind at some dead end job, or that followed some meaningless money chase instead of true love, or that sat back and allowed the powers-that-be to run amok without any semblance of resistance.

If this is the only day you get to live, or if you just treat it that way, you'll clearly see that now is the time. No one wants to watch you plan for retirement, they want to see you live your life to the fullest as you follow your heart into eternity. Live today like it's your last. Today is a good day to die.

*******

It's a good day to live too. To soak up the Sun's energizing vibrations and convert them into an action sequence. The Sun's on his way down now, but that doesn't mean we are, I've got a new roommate for the night and we've got plenty to talk about. Unci Carolyn's borrowed tent had to leave today, so I invited her to my borrowed tent, where we proceeded to drink some Peyote tea. Yeah.

Peyote - it's a cactus, grows out of the ground, a gift from Unci Maka, a way to connect to another plane of existence, the spirit world. There are two ways of connection through the Lakota tradition, the Sun Dance way, and the Peyote way, though Peyote was not native to the plains. It was a sacred gift from the Comanches of the desert, who received the knowledge of this medicine during a grandmother's four day vision quest, as she sacrificed food and water to pray for the healing of her people.

Not sure that I'm ready to calculate the legality of gifting medicine plants, but I'm certain that there's a healthy way to share these spiritual gifts from the Earth. I was ready to taste it though, at least I thought I was. Unci was quite familiar with the medicine - she'd used it to kick heroin - and was now a spiritual guide for many. It's not necessarily fun or easy, though I guess none of our ceremonies quite fit that description either. Stuff comes up to confront you and you're gonna face it, but you leave a Peyote meeting with a new understanding of Wakan Tanka.

We weren't in ceremony though, just in a tent, and I only had a few gulps. Little tingly maybe, but not much else, a few scattered thoughts as I fell asleep, but what's new? I will try Peyote again, but I think that the place for this is in ceremony, to take it in a sacred manner, to honor and respect the plant medicine for its amazing ability to connect - to take it in a good way.

*******

I've been into psychedelics for a long time, off and on at least, but only recently considered the experience anything close to spiritual. I always preferred acid, though I'm not sure where I'll land on a laboratory made molecule of spiritual connection, I certainly believe in it though. All the rest of them seem good to go in my book, Psilocybin, Ayahuasca, Peyote, all-natural connecting flights to another realm, but they could certainly be misused. They're not for party, they're for prayer. A way to connect on a new level, and perhaps a way to move past genetic blockages of a colonial ancestry. We (white people) are further removed from a harmonious relationship with Unci Maka than those only a few generations into their separation anxiety. It is physically harder for us to connect, keep trying. Psychedelics could help, when taken in a sacred manner, with a prayerful intent. But you must face the work to be done head-on.

I've also heard that the medicine is more powerful in the location where it grows. Of course. Obviously. If I think the way I do about eating local, why would I not assume the same about spirit plants? They are going to have more to say and be more inclined to connect you to the inner workings of Unci Maka, if they feel at home, if they are surrounded by their friends, if the ground under your feet is the familiar soil of their path as well.

It's also customary to prepare your body in a sacred way before you depart, like how Jesus fasted for forty days as he received visions from the spirit world, or how in Ayahuasca's hometown, it is tradition to purify your body for a month or two before embarking on your world tour. No refined sugar, processed foods, alcohol, deep fried delicacies, caffeine, dairy, red meat or sexual exchange of energy - you're gonna need to hang onto it for this journey.

Geez, well that was all the fun stuff, but there's some new things on the menu, including a daily dose of some local medicine plants that will help to connect you to the surrounding landscape's vibration. So a super clean diet will greatly affect the prayer experience, and I've just come off of a stint of my purest menu yet, no wonder I'm starting to see all these intricate implications of our americanized food supply.

All make sense to me, and I will from now on approach any further psychoactive explorations in the most sacred way, with intent, and ceremony, and an understanding that paths of connection converge. Still gonna hope that LSD makes the guest list of ceremony, but not sure which local habitat it would reside in.

*******

I think I might reside in south dakota for a bit, still have a few days of purification before my ride leaves, but I'm already feeling that I've got more work to do out this way. Probably could have guessed that earlier, just finished the book and obviously I was ready for the next thing, figured I'd jump in the car with a water protector headed off to some mission or another, but as the cars rolled on, nothing felt like the right move. There were a handful of Rosebuddies on their way out, all on their own trajectories, including one that was trading places with me at Benjamin's. We'd all been here to experience this sacred ritual together, to help one another along the way, but we were each on our own journey around the Sun Dance tree.

Stuff comes up at Sun Dance, Ben warned me, energies swell, this is not a vacation. I was doing alright so far, though I'm a tad slow on the uptake, but a few of my close sisters were feeling the vibrations as lessons bubbled to the surface. These family members generally take issue with forced gender conformity, and the Lakota tradition has clearly defined gender roles - they mix like frybread oil and uranium water. They felt conflicted over the way they were expected to act because of their gender, they were freakin water protectors, they could do anything a boy could do, and probably better.

There's stuff like running the sacred kitchen, though Beth let me know right off that she allowed men to cook as well. Or picking Sage, an honor no one would ever complain about. But it was the dress code that was bugging my family. Women wear skirts to ceremony, to sweat lodge, or anywhere around the Sun Dance arbor, and even men wear them as they dance. But several of my sisters had personal aversions to wearing skirts, to being pushed into societal constrictions of who they were allowed to be. They had found so much connection through these Lakota ways, but this one stumbling block was pulling them away from the prayer.

I walked up to a conversation about it, between them, some women who proudly donned the sacred skirt, and a few veteran Sun Dancers. I get it, why can't this culture of connection recognize that the women are just as powerful as the men? Why box them into outdated ways of thinking? Though I do generally see that native tradition has some type of rooting in-tune with our Earthly equilibrium, even if I don't quite see the connection at first. And most of the women here are excited to sport the skirt, and to carry out their sacred roles in this ceremony, in this way of life.

Then it got set real straight, for me at least. A passerby caught our conversation and chimed in - The Lakota have had their entire way of life eradicated by colonization, including this ceremony, which was only recently made legal to perform again. They are trying to hold onto whatever pieces of tradition are left of their once harmonious culture, a set of beliefs that they know to connect them to the Great Spirit, rituals given to them as a way to heal Unci Maka, but they also see them fading before their eyes as the walls close in. So how colonized is it to waltz in here and try to mold their ceremony to fit into your own belief system, simply because you don't understand the power of theirs? I get that too, big time, but I'm a guy, so it's easy to be down with most things in this patriarchal world.

*******

Sure, our country is a patriarchy, and almost all white males at that, but the guy at the top isn't really the only element at play, and even if she'd have won more than the popular vote, we'd still be under patriarchal rule. It's not about your leader, it's about the entire concept of control systems. The divine feminine energy is all about intuition and compassion, curves and free-flowing structure, a love for all that unites a planet. And the other side is square, it's just numbers and math and the bottom line, grids and time slots as we clock in, an angular disconnection that breeds war (for profit). The matriarchal power structure looks like a Lakota camp, the sacred fire in the center as it emanates outward among a circular path of governessing. The patriarch prefers a triangle, or maybe the illuminatic pyramid, which can always be followed up the hierarchy to the top-down view of the square man behind the curtain.

Women are sacred. And powerful. The Lakota gender roles are not methods of oppression, they are meant to honor the givers of life and empower them to harness their energies in the most effective ways. We instead suppressed women as second-class citizens, for way longer than the colored folk, like, since the dawn of our current civilization. We felt threatened by their fortitude and their connection with the Earth, so we locked them in the house and treated them as possessions. As objects.

I've heard a Lakota elder say that women are more evolved than men, even according to my dad's book they were created after us, which explains why their Earthly connection is stronger than our own. And their lunar connection. Women participate in a lot of modern sweat lodges, but it is traditionally just for the men, not to be an exclusionary boys club, but because we are the ones who need periodic purification. We lose our way, our humility, our connection. Women, on the other hand, are fully equipped to cleanse themselves with the Moon.

They've always been able to hold their own in the real world, so we somehow brainwashed society into hiding them behind cosmetic walls and a widespread concept of female inferiority. We were scared that they would see the cost of men at work, so we kept them pregnant, focused on the family, not allowed to go to school, or learn a trade, or vote for a progressive white man who might actually see them as people and not possessions. They eventually staged a coup, and we had to admit that they deserved just as many civilizational rights as any other human, maybe even more than black people, we'll at least let them drink our water.

Just because they could now vote between the two white men running for office, don't think they experienced any more equality than a black man in a snowstorm. We still, even currently, are quick with the assumption of, "Silly girl, why don't you leave the thinking to the professionals?" An indoctrinated fallacy only supported by our fear of allowing them to become educated - why, they might start getting ideas or something. We pay them less for the same jobs, and any that make it to the top, have generally had to abandon their natural way of planetary compassion as they adopt a for-profit mindset.

The Lakota matriarch decides with her heart, what is truly best for her family, no logical explanation of love necessary. Might be why we included treaty caveats that 3/4 of the tribe's men were needed for decision making. Much easier to swindle drunk men than a conscious woman. Though it seems that only ten percent of the tribe's adult males even signed the treaty, but that was good enough for us, they don't know how to count anyway.

The matriarch understands the power of each sex as she nurtures the strength of both, she doesn't want to downplay our importance just because she feels intimidated by our thick skulls. One indigenous culture had a neat approach for sharing the power, the men were chosen by the women to embark on intertribal negotiations, they were free to decide the tribe's trajectory, but would have to return and face the music of the females. So if they made a bad call, they were simply replaced the next time. Imagine what progression our culture could have made with a policy like this, the men would still get to puff their chests and act all important, but they would be unable to selfishly enact legislation that traded life for dollars, or that treated any living being as anything other than an equal.

*******

We criticize women for thinking with their emotions, not their calculators. I grew up indoctrinated by this same school of thought, just the way it is, it's a man's world and it's gonna stay that way. Until we destroy it. Square house, square car, square cubicle - square existence. We invented ownership and private property, girls would never go for that, so we just added them to the inventory.

And now it's mindlessly embraced by the mainstream, becoming a sex object is the surefire way into stardom, and surefire way to perpetuate a mindset of objectification, which only increases the likelihood of young women being taken advantage of in a world of selling sex. I don't know how many times I've heard a man say that they wish they were a woman, just so they could use their body to get whatever they want. Do you? Really? You'd rather feel pressured to show your private side instead of being evaluated on any actual merit? I couldn't imagine facing every interaction in this 'man's' world, knowing that the so-called gentle-man across from you, is undressing you with his eyes while he plans his industry standard exploitation of an up-and-coming broken dream.

And all the sex workers across the country, and the exotic dancers - how many do you think feel trapped by the money? They turned to selling a piece of themselves to survive, for food and rent and heat and to take care of their little baby children, and they are someone's child as well, pushed into the submissive position of compromising their integrity for what are fundamental human rights. And we seem to be ok with this.

Some may not feel overtly forced into this way of life, happily hypnotized by the glitter of dollar bills, able to live a lifestyle more comfortable than they've ever known, and now no other work can compete, so I guess this is it. Or it could pay for college, or it could pay for an overdose, and how many teenagers do you think would get up the nerve to take their clothes off and rub their bodies on the laps of slimy old men, if this stupid dollar bill wasn't in the equation? If every human was automatically guaranteed food, and water, and a warm place to sleep, free to pursue whichever passion was pulling on their heart, free to pour good into the world in all directions as they receive the abundance she will return - how many do you think still choose stripping?

I know it sounds like a fantasy, saving a pretty woman with a worry-free world of abundance, but does it sound anymore ridiculous than a country with far more empty homes than homeless people, who let children starve while they grow Corn for cattle, and who would allow their sacred women to be sexually exploited for a made-up concept of capitalism? The things we allow to take place in this world, in the uncontested name of pursuing money, are downright appalling. Shameful. Money is not a real thing, it cannot replace life, yet we don't blink an eye at the devastations of humanity, as long as there's a high enough profit margin of error.

*******

Not all men are created evil, most are just victims of the same system and unaware of their impact, as they merely follow the exceedingly disgusting norms of society. Most could at least admit that it's a man's world, but I think most would like to keep it that way, I think they genuinely feel superior because everything about the patriarchal world tells them they are, which only perpetuates the colonial chauvinism.

Proud to be a man. Proud to be white. Proud to be an american. Proud white american men founded this country and wrote the rules to keep themselves in control, and only land owners can vote, so only those who feel ownership over our mother can decide how much we can exploit her. If you are a man, don't worry, it's not your fault, you're just a product of conditioning and circumstance. You are only to blame if you take the knowledge of this biased world and do nothing about it, if you gain perspective on the struggles of woman and still womanize, if you don't from here on out treat every single female you encounter with the respect you should be showing your mother, not as an object, but as the sacred energy that powers their being.

And I'm no saint. I'm pretty passionate about this one because it hits close to home. I never thought of myself as a womanizer, I've generally been pretty open and loving with women, certainly ogled a few, but dad taught me that even he could "look but not touch." Taught me anti-women jokes too. But he was just a product of a generation with less liberated females to break him free of the brainwashing of his patriarchal mindset. So what's my excuse?

*******

Purification was winding down, and it was finally time for me to face some deep down stuff. A water protector who I had known at camp, but not as closely as most, brought some things to my attention that actually explained a lot about her unexplained behavior towards me. We had seemed to hit it off at first, but all of a sudden she went cold, though I guess it had been forty below out there. And then it happened again here, we reconnected at first, but then whatever it was, came over her again. She kept it inside until after the ceremony, and then she shared with me what had been on her mind. She felt like I had made unwanted advances towards her back at camp, that I had been a creep.

I was flabbergasted, we had been vibing pretty good, at least I thought so, but even if I'm feeling it, I don't generally jump to conclusions. I'd openly expressed that I liked her, but still kept it just friendly, and we continued to hang out and get to know each other. So when she dropped out, I was confused.

And now, even more so. Her retelling of the winter's events was a little different than mine, including a creepy shoulder touch, a bumpy walk down a snowy corridor, and even a stray pelvic thrust. As I look back, I see only innocence. I'm sure I did give a light touch as a colonized symbol of affection after several days of close conversation. And I remember the clumsy walk, side by side between three-foot slippery ice walls, not trying to touch, but inevitable. And I don't even know about this "pelvic thrust," not my style at all, I do actually have a little bit of game, guess it could have been some random motion at the moment she looked up, but I can't picture it.

Either way though, I had affected this woman in a bad way, whether I felt it or not. It may be a norm in the society that I come from to touch another, but I don't have any clue what someone else has been through, the trauma and healing they've experienced, and in Lakota culture, you don't even look a woman in the eyes sometimes. Who am I to touch another?

But I look back at my past, and that's how some of the loves of my life have come to be. I made a move, or they did, we didn't talk about it, we just went for it and hoped for the best. That's what we're taught to do. We're taught to try, and even to try again when they say no, my own family so proudly began with my mother's initial refusal. I've even been chastised for giving up at the first sign of resistance, "well, aren't you gonna chase me?"

I was born an introvert, and have had to push myself to open up to the point of even being able to talk to girls, or to look them in the eye. Then I worked my way up to making moves, and they worked out, but what if she only let it happen because she was scared to say no? Or coerced into consent.

*******

I had been praying to gain further connection, to work through the blockages weighing on my heart, and I just got the entire understanding of my patriarchal treatment of women slammed right into my face. I prayed at the tree for a while, prayed for perspective to understand the hurt I had inadvertently caused another, which had undoubtedly affected her experience at this sacred ceremony. I had to honestly look at the way I view women, and with the understanding that I've only ever known the doctrines of colonization. Certainly I've objectified them, it's almost reflex to check out a pretty girl, and it's a pretty standard male bonding activity. From sex scenes to strip clubs, and a sheltered youth ensured the object of my desire. I also grew up in a deprived world of sin that suppressed my blooming sexuality, so I was eager to join the game.

Then I fell in love, not for her body, but for her heart, though we also enjoyed a fair bit of the other one too. Once that was done, heartbroken and ready to get over one by getting under another, I got wrapped up with a whole gaggle of strippers. I didn't spend money, not even back then, but they were my friends and happy to let me objectify them for free. A job's a job, and they were making bank, which is all that matters, plus the drugs necessary to forget the workday. I was innocent compared to them, recently devirginized and ripe for the picking, so who was exploiting who?

I continued to blossom and treated women with respect and honesty, but I was uncatchable, and even though I clearly stated my non-committal clause, which rationally justified my disconnectedness, people still catch feelings. I always felt that I didn't lead women on, I've been in plenty of frivolous flings, many just FWBs, but I always fell back on my honest introduction, as a way to nullify the guilt I could have felt for hurting another's heart. I had no interest of anything further, I wasn't into them on anything but a purely physical level, and sometimes hardly even that. I may have been open about my intent, but does that make it any more right?

I used these women as the objects that I had been taught to see them as. And some were fine with that, insisted that it be that way, they were using me for the same. But others thought they would be able to keep their body separated from their heart, only to see that it doesn't work that way, and when they started to love, I was out the door because of my public disclaimer of solitude.

If I've hurt others along my path, it doesn't matter how many justifications I tell myself, I have a responsibility to my mother to heal her in any way that I can. I can't look at a woman as her physical body, even if the argument is that of primal instinct, or if she literally asks me to objectify her. It's not easy to break this lifetime habit, but I feel it's necessary to truly connect with my sisters on a spiritual level. We are not our material bodies, so why should I get caught up on theirs, when I can see an infinitely beautiful soul right there under the surface?

So no more meaningless sex. I may not wait for 'the one,' though I do crave a deeper love than the last, and I know that only by leaving space for our paths to cross, can I manifest her into my life. I can no longer be intimate with someone who I do not share an intimate connection with, and when I put it that way, why would I want to?

*******

The tree wasn't done with me though, I had to face a deeper demon head on, something that I had known was wrong even before my colonial upheaval, but had been repressed with the rationalizations of righteousness. I was at a party once, messed up, and so was she. Things happened and it turned into a beautiful experience that lasted into the next evening, and that's how I left it.

Not the first time I've had an intoxicated hook-up, one of them even lasted five years. But when I texted her the next day, I got no response, and then a few jeers from her friends, and then a mutual acquaintance confronted me. She felt like I had taken advantage of her. I quickly defended my actions, and explained my confusion, and continued to justify it to myself as I kept cruising through life. I would think about her occasionally, but always focused on the seemingly pleasant experience that I thought we had shared. Never willing to let myself truly understand the event from her perspective.

But now this, this way to pray which forces me to be honest with my heart, and this situation at Sun Dance which has prompted me to reevaluate my innocence in this world. I may not feel that I wronged this water protector, but the experience has pushed me to understand how I have hurt another, like maybe this was the reason all along.

I try not to live with regret and guilt, but this is a tough one, who even knows what kind of pain this has caused along her path? From my perspective, she was with it, I made the first move and her seemingly conscious blacked-out body joined right in. But from her perspective, she came to, and I was enjoying her flesh, and then again a few hours later, and by the end she was starting it up, but was that just a Stockholm reaction to the confusion of this waking dream?

I felt sick to my stomach. I had convinced myself that the good time had outweighed the intoxicated setup, but now I could see that I had acted out of line. I was out of my head at the time, but that's no excuse, though it's a great excuse for sobriety.

It hurt to think about the pain I've caused, but also somehow a wave of relief as I finally admitted to myself what this artery blockage was, not that it was removed from weighing on my heart, but at least now I know of the work to be done. But how could I even begin to comprehend what I could possibly do to right this manifestation of negative energy? And how could I possibly believe that it had happened for a reason?

My first thought was to write her a letter, to apologize to this dear soul for the years of second guessing her own actions and memories, I am a writer now after all, kinda. Immediately I worried about a public omission of guilt, what if she used it against me, against the movement, but it only took another prayer to understand that if this would heal the trauma, then that was my burden to bear. But then I thought of her, what if she's already worked through it, what if it wasn't as easily forgotten, what if she's painfully managed to put it in the past? Is my contact only drudging up old memories that were better left alone, and just so that I could selfishly feel better about my own path?

I kept her in my thoughts and prayers, and continued to evolve the way I view and treat women. I feel that I owe it to her to become an advocate for the unconditional respect of the sacred female. Again, on a trip later in my journey, I was reminded of my need to heal this scar, the one inside myself, which means sending a message to this woman. I can't invade her privacy for my own benefit, so I thought about a publicly open letter with no specifics, but I felt that would be an anonymous cop out. So I'll print it here. She will only read it if she comes to this book on her own, and I trust that she will feel the remorse in my words. I pray that she sees the change that has taken place in my heart, and also that my brothers reading this will take another look at the ways in which they view the feminine counterparts of our planet.

Dear Woman,

I am so incredibly sorry for any pain I have caused you, I didn't treat you in the sacred manner you deserve, and I allowed society's approval of oppression to convince me that I had done nothing wrong. I did. I can never do or say anything to take back what is done, nor will I try, but I want you to know that this has sparked in me a deep need to treat every single woman I encounter with my undivided respect. I pray that you will find comfort in knowing that not only will I never hurt another like I have you, but that I am actively on a path of salvation, as I attempt to repair the wound I have created between woman and man. I cannot change the past, but I can move on from the present in a manner that has evolved from those mistakes, in a way that empowers the divine feminine spirit to exist outside of our material objectifications. Please know that I think about your pain every single day, with every single interaction with the opposite sex, and that from this point on, every single encounter with each woman that I meet, will be met with my uncorrupted heart vibration, not my wandering eyes. You have had great impact on the way that I will treat women for the rest of my life, again I pray that this somehow helps your healing process, as well as all those that I am able to share my new perspectives with. If there is ever anything I could possibly do to ease your pain, or to simply be there for you in a way that I wasn't, do not ever hesitate to find me, I am forever at your mercy, though I'm a bit tough to track down these days.

Very much sincerely,

-Man
Our Mother Earth is no man's property

*******

And just like that, Sun Dance was over. Most everyone had already gone, including the caravan back east, wasn't time for my journey yet, though I still had no clue what was next. Harvey said that we could stay around as long as we needed, me and a few other water protectors, including the Erenbrooks, plus there was still half a Buffalo in the fridge.

Also a bunch of Flies in the cook shack. Some wanted to swat the swarm, but you already know my Fly harming policy. Here's the thing - we are the reason they're here, we create their niche, we create their food, we create the warming Earth that provides longer breeding seasons - this insectivasion is a manmade plague.

Maybe they're here to cleanse the Earth of our waste, or of us, could certainly carry another plague, but with each kill we only make their offense stronger. We could just clean up after ourselves, in the cook shack, or the landfill, or the cattle ranch, or we could invest in a Fly strip company because they seem to be getting worse all over. And so are the limey Ticks. And the malaric Mosquitoes, who were only ever given the chance to breed once we invented crap to clutter our yard. Only with stagnant water collecting on and in stuff, and the standstill of manmade water features, was this tropical swamp creature given the space to baby boom.

It is Lakota tradition to upturn any buckets or containers before leaving them outside, I was told that this was for the water, we don't want to block its natural flow, and when we find a rain filled pail, we gently pour it out right where it would have fallen. I love you water. And a convenient modern side effect to this old traditional way, is that Mosquitoes have nowhere to breed. I'm telling you, there's something to this native oral tradition.

Just like the traditional conical dwelling, inherently built to live in a good way. Leaves minimal temporary footprint, it's feng-shui'd for maximum energy efficiency, water naturally flows right around it, and it's gonna kill way less animals than that log cabin will.

Killer house on the loose, run! Not a horror flick about diminishing forests or spraying for Termites, or concreting over anthills, though none would be an issue in a tipi. Nope, I'm talking about a B-movie about a great escape, or an attempt at least, but they all died. Oops, spoiler alert, it's windows crashing. The un-understandable plate glass panels of invisible forcefield that claim the lives of bewildered Birds, or that imprison the Bees, and Flies, and Moths, and other bugs that we want in the house about as much as they want to be trapped behind this magic mirror.

Back at the farm, there had been a Wasp's nest in the barn, and they couldn't figure out how to escape with their instinctual itinerary, so they just paced and searched for a loophole in the system. And then they died.

Tipis don't have windows and bugs don't get trapped inside. There's a door that they can come in if it's open, but they can just fly out the round hole of sunlight up above, and there's no power grid of incandescence to trick them into thinking they'd want to visit anyway, especially if the cast iron's hot. In a square home of modern construction, windows offer us a piece of the great outdoors from the comfort of our couch, a window to a more fulfilling world. But in a tipi, you are a living part of that mystical great outdoors.

I know that I'll never convince everyone to take up the tipi, but it is so right on so many levels, way healthier for all involved and just pretty darn tootin fun to live in. I know what you're thinking, that'll never be enough room for all my stuff, where will I put my five-room house's worth of things that I might need sometime? And I definitely need an acre lot of grass to mow too, or else what will I have to do this weekend?

*******

This is so ridiculous. Eradicating natural food supplies to manicure a useless invasive. Inedible lawn grass is the most irrigated crop in america. At least you have them fenced in from taking over the world, but why not at least seed 'your' acre with the foods you already buy on the way to the home and garden store?

When you live in a tipi, the entire continent is your backyard, but the inside is just as vast once you've transcended the material. It's better to pack light anyway, and it's better not to settle between hard places, we are meant to be nomads. Some more than others, and some geographic locations support more seasons of survival, but not a soul on Earth is meant for permanence.

Our planet is a liquid. Her timeline is just too far outside of our minimal grasp to fathom, except that now she's about to overflow. The Earth is in a constant state of flux, continents shifting and beaches eroding, it's all natural, even without this mysterious heatwave of floodwaters, and even the dry land is an ever-shifting foundation, like sand dunes in the wind.

At least until we had the genius idea of building our unmovable beachfront condos, and then the beachfront naturally erodes as it moves out back. But we spent so much money to manage this vanishing vacation rental, so we'll just pay our congressman to disrupt the oceanview ecology of two ecosystems, as we steal sand from another to rebuild our economic empire of weekly rent.

But had they lived in a tipi, or any form of mobile home, they could simply move it back a few feet when the tidal wave comes in. Or if your town has started flooding, you could just move to high ground instead of building a faulty levee. Or if it gets too cold in the snow, and if frozen pizza isn't your desired menu, just pick up and head south for the winter. But that doesn't work with the controlling arm of capitalism.

Private property. Take pride in your ownership of adulthood, create something to last long after you're gone, build an empire, just another something to clutter the skyline as our never-ending expansion exceeds expectations. And it's gonna take about thirty years of hard labor to pay it off, so good luck with that nomad thing on your two weeks of actually living each year.

*******

I understand that I'm an idealistic dreamer, I romanticize living in the old way, but that's only because I've experienced its magic first hand. I personally crave this life, but I fully get that for my words to have an impact on the mainstream, I have to provide an alternative way of thinking that has some rooting in reality. It works for my path of misadventure, but a tipi is no place to raise a family, not enough room, not enough convenience, simply an impossible task to ever attempt. Sure, the Lakota did it, for like basically ever, but they were way tougher than we are, though we do have a secret weapon of water protector canon. I cannot accept a diagnosis of daydream, a colony resigned to believing they could never fit their busy schedule into a tipi way of life, not when I've personally known the most amazing family of seven who still had room to have me over for dinner.

We were getting pretty tight though, the kids and I constantly trading songs, they were far better than me, but that was no surprise. These little ones knew what was up. They cooked their own Buffalo bites on an open fire, they knew about the poisons of GMOs, they were more worldly than half the adults I know, though I do keep somewhat questionable company. In-between tipis, they travel in the bus, though that is only a recent addition to the family unit, and the most colonized that they have ever lived. And every time a child hits their head on a corner or touches the hard edge of the not-so-open wood stove, they exclaim that they miss living in a circle.

They used to live in a tipi community, way out in the middle of an untamed landscape, a circular village of like-minds living far outside of the boxes. They set up camp on the hill for the warm summer months, and when it got cold, they moved down into the warmer valley. Nomads. Real life tipi nomads. They didn't migrate far, but their impermanence left ample room for nature to grow with them, not against them. And all of this actually happened in modern day america, at least until the dang liberals got involved.

So this conservancy group came through and gained control of the land, and they wanted to build an eco-village, then they met the already eco-ing village and professed their love for a community already living out their vision. And then a lawyer got involved. Money got involved. And the next thing they know, the land conservancy group kicks out this village already living a traditional life of harmony with their surrounding environment, so that they can build retreats for rich people to pretend that they are. The Erenbrook kids have their placentas buried in that land, it is home, the only one they have ever known, they are intimately connected to that forest, but american law clearly allows for rich white men to cold-heartedly displace tipi villages, it's actually got a pretty strong precedent.

So they got the bus, packed everyone in with surprising amounts of wiggle room, and they hit the road - to Standing Rock - turns out that their magically manifested backstory is just as uncannily coincidental as the rest of us. Duh. They made tipis with peddle power at camp, and again here at Sun Dance, and it's pretty inspiring to see the level of convenience they've managed without electricity, but even they have a hard time finding a place to live rent free. Even on the reservation.

They are constantly harassed about vacating what should be publicly available land, but in true water protector fashion, they don't back down from a few police intimidation tactics. They speak up, challenge authority, and she will pull herself up on a rope into the center of the tipi, where it will now be an entire ordeal to evict a peaceful family with no actual grounds for illegal ejection. These people are my heroes.

But even here at Sun Dance, now that it's over, Harvey only has the official say-so over the closest four acres, so he wanted us to move our camp, or else the BIA could come knocking any day, on his family land, generally allotted, dissected and fractionated. It was now illegal for their tipi to be set up where it was, atop a hill on an indian reservation.

They were used to this though. They've been on my way of viewing capitalism for longer than me. We all despise the destruction of dollars, but they hold a much more rational philosophy than I. They see it as a tool, like anything else on the bus, they use it when they need to, but otherwise it sits on a shelf, and the key is that they don't exchange their lifeforce in pursuit of wealth. They just do what they are already doing, living the life they love - sewing tipis and giving them away, or playing music at farmers markets as they represent our family and spread Earthly love - and the money that comes in is simply a convenient byproduct. A side-effect of doing what feels right. But certainly not enough to pay rent.

He and I had so many deep conversations about our similarly extreme worldviews, extreme in their simplicity, and extreme in the necessary measures involved in fixing this extreme mess we're in. I don't think a new recruit in four years is gonna be enough to stop the mayhem machine, this is not a new problem we're finding ourselves in, it's simply coming to an inflated head of state really quickly these days. I liked his thought that as people become more virtual and less connected to actual society, they'll slowly die off without procreating and that will be that. That's more of a long-term plan, but he also had a very interesting concept for forcing the hand of capitalism and possibly toppling the whole system, and I think it might work. Rent strike.

*******

'Rent' \- it literally means 'to tear apart.' Similarly eerie to 'mort-gage' and its root 'death-grip.' If agriculture was my arch-nemesis of redundancy, pushing our planet to produce for profit when she was already perfectly providing at capacity, then rent was his. As fundamentally dumb as having to pay for food sounds to me, it does somehow sound even more contrived to charge a person for a place to exist. Geez, what backwards kinda language was that one possible in? Definitely not one with vibrational roots in Unci Maka.

We exist on the living surface of our mother, we are components of our creator's life cycle, we have the God-given right to live on her. Who are you to lay claim to a piece of our planet's face? Fencing off a mowed acre of Earth to keep it away from the plants and animals that literally make up that exact piece of Earth. The bodies of their ancestors are the dirt under your feet, but their check didn't clear the fence, so they were promptly evicted as new tenants were socially encouraged to become proud 'property' owners.

I dropped using the word 'property' from my vocabulary, I've said it less than I've touched money, and that was only in air quotes as I spoke against the concept. This was the easiest bit of colonial language for me to abandon, though now it irks me to no end to hear eco-conscious family members proclaim ownership, but I understand that this type of terminology is simply the way that we speak english. How else can you talk about a specific tract of land that you live upon?

I just say "the land", or this parcel of land, or the land that you steward, or I like the Erenbrook's phrasing - "the land that you hold title to." Uh huh, that's good, you can't buy a piece of my living mother, no matter how many paper dollars you throw at her, but capital bank will be happy to sell you a different piece of paper, in exchange for your life savings of selling your soul. They claim that this piece of paper will authorize you to be in charge, just like they claimed the other paper scraps made them in charge, it's just too bad that the fine print is in some language that has absolutely no authority over anything of this world. You do not own the land beneath your feet, but I can concede that you may own the manmade title paperwork that displays the invisible fence they've caged you into, sure hope it's worth all that hard labor though.

I simply can't condone writing-off another's life as an investment in a high-risk future. I was referring to our living planet, and her living organismic experience, but even the supreme beings of Godly image get taken hostage by the indenturing ideology of ownership. Even before 'rent' really, back when you could just set up a shop in indian country, and even if you managed to live completely off the land, you still had to answer to the tax man.

But 'owning' your home is one of the most widespread milestones of growing into american adulthood, and far more fiscally responsible than getting caught up in the rent race. Now you're paying even more than it costs to 'own' the land that was stolen in the first place, scraping by to keep up with the monthly cycle of paying another's mortgage, just so that you have a space to exist. Not a chance of getting ahead of the game, and as you pay off their debts, the land-'lords' are free to invest in new 'properties.' The class divisions widen as the bourgeoisie's growing wealth is mirrored by an equal and opposite enslavement of the masses.

*******

'Slave' might be a tad harsh, everyone is free to go at anytime, though it does seem to be a little tough to find a life anywhere outside of the cage. So staying put will have to work, and so will you, for your food, for your shelter, for the inherited right of existing in this made-up material world. On second thought, 'slave' sounds pretty freakin accurate.

And I've met so many that envy my nomadic life of adventure, they just wish they could do something like this, but alas, gotta stay around here and work ourselves to death so that we'll have a decent place to die. The irony is that the place dies before you do, strangled by the sprawling fingers of civilization, and if you'd have simply gone with the wind like the other dust of the Earth, you'd be constantly finding yourself in the most amazing spaces. And if somehow everyone could lead a low impact life of mobility, we'd all live in lush gardens with plenty of breathing room, instead of living with the congestion of smog in a concrete jungle.

It's tough though, to have any type of modern existence of moderate comfort, it's the only way to get by really. Gotta buy-in to look at the cards you're dealt, and we'll shame you if you decide to fold 'em, so you just keep throwing your money in the pot as you chase your losses down the spiraling Rabbit hole of nowhereland. And you signed a piece of paper, saying that you would provide these other pieces of paper, to be exchanged for this other piece of paper, that claims that you are in charge. (Note to self: Buy stock in Dunder-Mifflin)

You made a commitment. You're word. You're credit. You're reputation. I canceled my ticket on the money train, but I know so many prospective protectors that just need to stay plugged in long enough to pay off their debt to society, and then they can make the transition into providing their positive contribution to society, the one that has been tugging at their heartstrings the whole time. Unable to be forward thinking with a negative balance on the books, they push through a life of using an ecology degree to permit the development of destruction, because the industrial complex has a far larger budget than our penniless planet does.

I understand the need to keep your word, the language of colonization is the only thing some people have, but myself, personally, if I woke up and realized that the entire system I've been paying into was a fraudulent facsimile of freedom, that every single step I take within its walls leaves a devastating footprint on another's home, that the gross product of the american imagination of liberty can be tallied by the amount of murders required to make the illusion believable - if I opened my eyes and saw that my dollars were funding a genocidal regime on a mission to destroy the planet, I'm pretty sure that I could dissolve myself of any personal liability to fuel another war on the world. That's just me though.

But the rent thing, I'm not alone on that one, and this family's conviction to stand up to a housing crisis that's attempting to put a new lease on every human life, is an inspiration beyond words, and an incredible reminder that humans are fully capable of living a perfectly healthy existence on this planet. We are not born to destroy. We are not born to hate. We are not born to fear. We are conditioned to be a weak society that will see no other way out, except for the flashing lights of capitalism, blinded to the obvious traps that ensnare our exodus as we meet our fate in the struggle to break free. Might be easier to chew off your leg.

*******

Or, what if we just stopped paying rent? What would happen if we banded together and said that enough is enough, we are unwilling to continue this madness any longer. What if we all acknowledged that the system is rigged against us, realized that our inflated population far outnumbers their one percent, and decided to stick it to the patriarch?

It's a pretty revolutionary idea. He had mentioned a rent strike a few times, I liked the imagery that it brought up of the people coming together to topple the tyranny in a more than realistic scenario, but eventually I had to properly speculate on just what it might look like. You'd have to get a large group of people on board, otherwise they'd just arrest the squatters and squash our movement of not moving. A mobilized legion of stationary nomads.

Once it gets to be a national phenomenon, it's easy to see the monkey wrench it will throw into the machine of primate imprisonment. The industrial apartment complex takes a big hit, as do the banks who invest in a developing world, and corporations who profit from pushing down poor people will no longer be empowered to purchase more 'property.'

Construction will slow as the housing market collapses, scary for anyone who has adopted one of civilizations most honorable trades - building stuff bigger and better and faster and farther, or the even more prestigious task of designing the destruction themselves as an architect of our fractured future - but to anyone aware of our obvious overgrowth, this is one of the most desirable side-effects of the whole plan.

But is it really that scary when you realize that your newfound vacation time, happens to coincide with a socially acceptable movement of simply not paying the bill that had you going to work in the first place? In fact, a lot of people might stop going to work, especially those stuck in dead end jobs that suck out their soul in exchange for a roof over their cell. Beautiful. Why would we want anything else for them? Oh yeah, I guess we still need an entire working class so utterly dependent on our minimum wage, that we can force them to do the dirty work of our civilization's seedless underbelly. To operate our invasive infrastructure. Who's gonna pick up our garbage if they're not trapped by our economic prison?

So now those crossing our picket fence are affected too, and the strikers are probably already creating less rubbish as they transition out of a life of waste, plus the convenient stores of low prices and low wages are no longer able to keep up the distribution of plastics, as their workforce realizes that they don't have to toil their life away from their family in order to support them. The whole balance of power starts to shift as doors are unable to open, which only opens other ones, and we've begun to transition from a mindless consumer economy into a conscious community of humans, now free to give our heart away to our heart's content.

So the corporate takeover will grind to a halt, but I'm pretty sure that would include food importation, the other primary push towards profession. So maybe people will still feel the need to work in order to feed their bellies, but between all the stops that your food makes from farm to table, it's got a good chance of clogging an artery or two. This would be the scariest bit, especially for all of the Sardines in the city, no concept of food outside of the fast paced variety. If we aren't prepared for this, people will panic, they will become territorial over looted food caches, and the government will try to starve us out.

So we'll stock up, and plant as much food as we can, and without the constraints of capitalism punishment, I bet someone will be more than happy to deliver food to their community, lord knows I was. We'll need to be there to show our family how to be strong, and that can easily be done in a community kitchen, where non-believers can experience the power of the people coming together in a good way. Plus, at least it would be on our own terms, instead of waiting on the impending shutdown of whichever catalyst is about to topple the tower, forcing us to frantically flee the deadlocked highways and falling right into their upper hands. And the reality of our changing climate is not some dream of a distant future, it is right now, and it is already responsible for a worldwide crop failure rate of over thirty percent, a statistic that is expected to drastically increase as the deadlines of mass starvation approach faster than curbside delivery.

Wouldn't it be better to take rent control of the situation? Put them on the defensive, though I know first hand that their idea of homeland defense is quite offensive in itself. If this movement gains enough leased ground to start affecting the cash flow of the corporations who own the country, we'll see an evolution from local police serving evictions, to the national guard declaring martial law on peaceful citizens of protest. That, I can promise you, is not conjecture, it's what they are already doing to the few of us standing up in their face, but they absolutely cannot impose their will on a population who understand the power of the people united against evil.

I know this part of it sounds scary, I've been there, but unless something big happens first, we will see militarized police littering our streets in the not-so-distant future. I know to the masses I seem like a conspiracy nut, but you're different, if these words are speaking to you, then the naivety of the mainstream flock probably isn't. Our country is a business, and if our noncompliance to getting screwed over starts to hit their bottom line, they will use whatever force necessary to continue the profiteering. Plus, they make most of their money from military spending anyway, so at least someone gets a job security contract out of the deal. And how many of those american citizens sworn to protect, will be willing to publicly oppress little old grandmas at gunpoint for a paycheck, especially now that they don't have to pay rent either? If enough of us stand up for what is right, they'll have no choice but to step down.

*******

We really need this whole country on board to stop this damnation, but I bet that's a tall order of organization for an entry level rent striker, so I think we should focus on a single city and use it as a template to be followed as we gain momentum. And let's say that we can manage to find enough people fed up with the Fed, just what would those early days of the infamous rent strike revolution look like? Well, we'd stop paying rent. And we would be served eviction notices, though it might take a while to wade through all that paperwork. We'd have a legal window of freeplay before we were ousted, but then the police would try to remove us from the premises. Early on, it might not be too overwhelming for the police to handle, except maybe evicting those little old grandmas at gunpoint, though I've certainly seen them do that specific social atrocity first hand. But at what point is the local police force unable to process paperwork and still make time to do their actual job?

It's not gonna take many. Who's gonna be first though? It's not so easy being the frontline when it means personal sacrifice for the greater good, it's actually pretty fun though. And it's already happening. People are currently unable to pay their rent and facing eviction, and I bet the underprivileged sure would appreciate a little support from those with the power to be heard. And as the economic bubble that we're in bursts, if we have a plan other than blindly following the government's directions to the nearest 'housing camp,' or 'medicaid camp,' or 'concentration camp,' I bet it'll be easy to get people who can no longer afford to pay rent, to stop paying it. Once people have nothing to lose, it'll be easy to help them win.

But the renter only has to worry about losing their deposit, it's the home-owning land-lord that has to answer to the bank. Not much guilt about tearing down condos, but what about the independent leaser who is now on the hook to pay the price of our freedom? Certainly an important consideration, we'd be attacking a private citizen, maybe even a little old grandma, and essentially be dragging them into a fight they didn't choose. They'd either have to cover the losses themselves, or join in on the strike.

Yeah, homeowners can now sign up too. A bit tougher to get them to hang up their concept of ownership, plus now we're directly squaring off with the banks, so more severe penalties considering that they're the ones behind all this madness, which is exactly why we have to dismantle the cashier cages. I know that it sounds ridiculous to think of someone risking their next twenty years of payments on some hillbilly's boycott, but if we effectively shut down real estate and retail, the banks will be too busy drying up to notice every unpaid note.

So maybe we target 'properties' managed by larger entities at first, but it has to grow across the board meeting for it to work, and in the end, how can you feel bad for someone who 'owns' an extra home just to turn a profit on someone less privileged? I can't accept ownership of the ground under my feet, let alone a half acre across town. And if this is enough to bankrupt them, then they were probably leaning towards joining us anyway.

*******

Plus, we'd have a plan, which would include community housing and infrastructure for any displaced strikers. In fact, they could stay at the next house on the docket for eviction, we all could, what if the bank guards showed up and had to toss out a hundred people from each house? Or what if ten of them were locked down like we do on pipeline excavation equipment, arms trapped in a rig that takes hours for police to cut apart? 10 people, 4 hours each, if every eviction took an entire work week, how long could they possibly keep it up? They'd do sneak attacks, but we'd be on walkie and at the ready for an evictory flash mob. They'd cut our power, so we would have to be self-sufficient, but that's really better anyway. Would be way easier to stay warm in the warmer months, and easier to get food too, at least until they realize they can't stop us, and shut the streets down altogether, cutting off our lifelines as they attempt the systematic sweep of the city.

Just spitballing here, but I think this is when we hit phase two. This is the point when our swelling momentum has the most stopping power, before they've begun to divide and conquer, but just after our numbers hit terminal velocity. And then we just pour into the streets. Peacefully. There's a signal, and those who catch it, head down, then the others catch on, maybe even all heading to a strategic point of interest, like the bank or something, or the capital-ism building, or maybe somewhere where people are actually held accountable for their actions. Some might get arrested for civil disobedience, for walking outside when the army has taken up private corporate interests over human ones, but what's a cop gonna do if a hundred people surround him with love?

Teargas maybe, but we're not talking about hippie protesters in a forgotten land of ice, this is a downtown urban area with normal american citizens witnessing what I already know is coming, even those that weren't ready for the revolt before, are going to be outraged at what they see happening in their streets. We can't start a destructive riot, it will scare off the masses and allow them to take the rest of us out with brute force, it has to be an aggressively-passive movement in order to get the other cities to follow suit. And there will be infiltrators, without a doubt, but our numbers will overtake their instigation. Plus they're reading this very secret plan as we speak, so they already know about our next move... JK dapl, I'm gonna keep that part quiet for a bit.

If we've already got sister cities on board, and even branched out to the suburbs where the exit strategy probably requires a commute, it's really not too tough to see the three-point-five percent of the population required to overthrow a corrupt government, think I read that in a book somewhere. We are now organized in the street, and if a resistance camp were ready to go in every single park, with food and shelter for the freedom fighters to wage war on the fear-based power structure caging us all in, we would basically be unstoppable.

So many wild cards though, and tough to have that widespread of a movement and maintain unity among the frontline. We don't even know what our ultimate goal here is, to stop paying rent I guess, but what does that even really mean? I think it means doing away with money, no, not necessarily, I think it means doing away with a monetary exchange of life vibration, for the basic building blocks of sustaining life. If there was free housing and food and health and utility, which also alleviated the greed fueled extraction of maximum planetary profit, then I'd have way less of a problem with this whole 'money' thing.

*******

No longer forced to slave away for rent, I could possibly at least consider the possibility of decolonizing this token of appreciation. And even if my disgust of dirty money keeps me away, I can't rule out its role in its own extinction event. We can use it all up to fund the revolution. Even material possessions are more useful than the dollar 'bills' whose name clearly announces their appreciating debt. So spend it while you got it, and do it before we close up shops.

A token of appreciation - a thank you gift for a kindness rendered (though it does sound like a coin that accrues interest), and in a gifting society, it could possibly enable something that resembled an economy. I personally believe in the tokenless arcade, everyone freely giving as manifestations multiply, but if we replace coins with pretty stones, I might be willing to give it a try for a while.

We still give, without expectation of return, which I promise only sets you up for success. When you cook a meal for another, they'll probably want to gift you something to say thanks, it's not expected, but certainly welcome. An honor to receive such a personal present, or maybe they don't really know you that well, well in that case, here's a piece of Rhodonite I found on a hike in timbuktu, it's Earthly vibration inspires generosity and compassion. I hope this token of appreciation conveys to you my gratitude for your hospitality, and please feel free to pass it on to another who shows you the same kindness that you've extended my family.

There's no finite commodification of natural resources, only a sentimental value of heart vibrations, and there's plenty of stones in the sea. Now our economy is sacred, precious widgets and handmade artsy crafts have replaced run-of-the-papermill currency. Maybe a little outlandish to the skeptic, but I've already experienced it in person, both in the moneyless manifestation of camp life, and in my paranormal nomadary excursions, it totally works. Without the mindset of scarcity and the time suck of slavery, people can be the most amazing human beings ever, or not, but we still love you, you don't owe us a thing. Oh, and here's some Rhodonite a friend gave me, I think you should hold onto this for a while.

*******

Or could the digital revolution actually curb technology's profit margin? What if we had an ebay feedback style gift registry that cataloged your giveaway points, rewarding you with more gifts as you give more away? I like the idea of societal worth being based on kindness, but it also sounds a bit like the personal worth rating system being implemented in china for profiting marketeers. Ew. I'm still a bit shy of the techno-utopia, and the plan to fight money with money, but there is one economic policy change that might work as a transitory step as we liquefy the wealth of class division - Negative Interest.

Oh, it's interesting alright, and maybe not in a bad way. Right now, we operate in a positively horrid interest system, where one only need to hoard money in order to make money, which dries out the cash flow of the mainstream, as the high interest loans from the Federal Reserve to the US government begin the transfer of every single drop of human vibration into the hands of our captors. Saving money isn't all the safe's cracked up to be, it's still living in excess, disrupting the natural flow of the current-sea, because you are unable to live in the now.

So what's so positive about negative interest? It's fundamental feature is that it breaks up the dam that's creating the stagnant one percent. From now on, a bank account with billions (or any amount really) doesn't gain dividends, it loses them. You are no longer rewarded for keeping all the money to yourself, or your bank family empire, now there are fortunes to be lost if capital is not capitalized on. The people with money now have the incentive to spend it, which pumps the economy with life, and they'll be far more inclined to invest in all sorts of new eco-friendly start-ups. So now without a rent payment, and a free backyard dinner, we would have endless entrepreneurial opportunity to innovate a new way to live.

Don't worry, I'm not getting hung up on money again, kicked that habit and haven't looked back, but I do get that a global transition into a new age of man, may take some baby steps. It would be scary to wake up tomorrow and realize that your life savings was worthless, unless of course you were one of the vast majority of the planet who suffer everyday in the poverty required to fund our financial crisis. People die every single minute over money, exactly how many should we chock up to collateral damage, before we divest ourselves from the bank owned foreclosure at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? The time is now. And the sooner we can all learn to live in that moment, without fear of the future, the sooner we can all experience this miraculous gift of the present.

"There'll be frybread, and drumming, and singing,

a carnival, baseball games, a rodeo, and even mud trucks.

Man, they got everything, you're gonna love the powwow."

*******

And what a time of astral celebration, a chance to honor our father's Sun and the gift of life that he provides to us all, but there was also a star studded lineup appearing all week. First there was a lunar eclipse during the pre-party purification, then the Virgo/Jupiter birth of a king that only happens at every dawn of civilization or so, some meteor showers, and today, after pouring half a month of our hearts out to our nuclear nucleus, we're still getting the lights cut off on us. Complete solar eclipse. What an amazing life of experience. Thank you creator, thank you Unci Maka, thank you Sun, wopila tanka.

We weren't actually in the path of totality, pretty close though, and I had a ride into nebraska on the bus if I wanted it. The kids begged me, and it certainly would be awesome to be there with them, but I was kinda leaning towards not. One of my closest comrades felt compelled to keep cleaning up the grounds, she would be heading home soon and didn't want to leave anything undone. I'd thought about hopping in the car with her, or the bus, but in the back of my head was something that a dear friend had shared with me.

She said that she was taught to acknowledge this wonder of our worldview, but not to chase it, to simply go about your life of momentous occasions. If you see it, you see it, cool, but forcing it might make you miss something truly spectacular in the now. Like, when I was standing in the door of the bus, ninety percent sure I wasn't climbing in, but trying to convince them of it, and I successfully stalled just long enough for one of our long lost water buddies to pull into the deserted plains of an empty Sun Dance grounds, and park directly in their path of totality.

Woah, out of nowhere our dude Dean rolls up, and joyous jubilee erupts as his magnetic field pulls all into a close hug. What a cool moment to have been there for, glad I wasn't halfway to nebraska by now. He didn't make it for ceremony, but he was here now, on his way through a camp tour which included a revisit to Standing Rock, and checking into the Line Three camp to check out our current frontline of opposition to the oil occupation. Hmm...

*******

He came bearing gifts, as many of us do, it really is the way of the future, but he has a crazy good knack for picking out the perfect present every time. And this time he had a massive box of organic seeds, enough to sew the garden back together, or maybe just the right amount to load up on a plane and disperse across the desolation of our demise, as we bring life back to our mother. Or maybe just some drones. The seeds that want to grow in that particular cornfield, will, they'll be the most fit for it, and the rest will feed hungry birds who will gladly carry them to their final destinations. Crop dust seeds, not poison.

The Erenbrooks had been struggling to find food that met their minimum requirements of realness, so the thought of them being able to share this gift with their growing rez family was heartwarming, we might have organic dinner reservations yet. Plus he brought some strong medicine, west coast flowers, way more powerful than the brick pins of Rosebud fame. And now that he'd unloaded his cargo, he had an empty seat available. He'd already scooped up Greg on the way, and they were headed a couple hours west to a camp in Pine Ridge, and now the plan is to rendezvous in nebraska with the bus for the obligatory total eclipse of the heart joke.

Well, this is what it's all about, this is why I don't make plans, why I don't get in a car unless it feels right, why I'm unwilling to perceive the future as anything but a 'now' that I'll get to experience later, and in this now, I'm jumping in this ride to the unknown, yet I know without a doubt that my heart's in the right place. The 'plan' we'll call it, is to come back through here tomorrow, just an overnight trip, but of course I'm taking all my stuff just in case, all three items. And I'm still lugging around this computer. I'd pulled it back out now that ceremony was finished, and was halfway through giving it a final revision with my new perspectives of prayer. This place had coffee and power, pretty much all I needed, so I assumed I'd probably be back soon to finish it up, but you never know.

I was finding it difficult to be completely in the moment while I carried this burden, I still had forward thinking work to do, and it required electricity, and not hitchhiking in the rain, but that rules out so much fun. Though I was obviously on the right track, living more than I ever had before, knowing that wherever I am is exactly where I am supposed to be, because I unconditionally follow the pull of my heart. It's so freaking cool. Exciting. I never know what's next, or when's next, it's a tad nerve-wracking for friends who never want to see me go, but they also understand the mechanics of my nomadicism. It may take me away at a moment's notice, but it also drops me back into their lives at the most significant of mile markers.

I've got a lot of work to do, a long road of service, and adventure, and that means I'm gonna be hard to pin down. It would be easy to feel overwhelmed by the seemingly impossible tasks ahead, but that's not for me to worry about, I only ever have to survive today. As long as I live out my heart's content in each moment, when I look back at my evolution, I'll be astounded by the way it all seemed to come together.

It's already happened a few times as I spiraled deeper and deeper into my own consciousness of the world around me, and the more I learn, and the more I think I understand the secrets of the universe, the more I realize that I'm just getting started. With every epiphany of spiritual connection, it is revealed that I've only opened the door into the next larger chamber of secrets, the cosmos unfold themselves into the next iteration of Fibonacci. We truly are the tiniest of dots within the construct of the Great Mystery, yet somehow we hold all of the answers of universal truth within each fractally fragmented cell of our being. And if what I've been experiencing is only going to get better as I wake from the fog of forgetting, well, I'm certainly not making any plans of stopping anytime soon.

*******

So we get to the Pine Ridge Rez, to Camp White Clay Justice, a social justice camp fighting against the intoxicating invasion of alcohol, on a reservation where it is illegal, yet somehow they still maintain the highest rate of alcoholism in the country. And poverty, as it's literally the poorest county in the country as well. This is arguably the roughest rez in the nation, or at least they've had it the roughest. It's home to Wounded Knee, the site of the ancestrally traumatic massacre of innocents, and home to further movements of repression when new generations gained the momentum of resistance. There have been armed stand-offs in the streets, the Oglala Oyate know that any day fighting for our home, is a good day to die, and many have been murdered in the process. And they have one of the highest rates of missing and murdered indigenous women in the country, who need I remind you, make up a quarter of the cases nationwide, but only 0.7 percent of the general population. WTF.

For many, the only way to cope is with a bottle, which wrecks their dwindling spirit faster than their dilapidated cars. No alcohol on the rez, thank goodness, nope, gotta walk all the way to nebraska for that. All 0.1 miles across the reservation border to the town of white clay, a supremely white town with a population of twelve, not 12,000, just 12. And in this grand metropolitan municipality, capitalism is king and the markets have spoken, and these 12 white clayers sure would like four liquor stores to make up their skyline. 42,000,000 beers sold in the past decade, 12 people.

The street has been littered with drunk indians, passed out on the road along the two mile stretch back to the trailer park village, and hundreds are run over and killed as they feed their genetic predisposition to alcoholism. This town's sole existence for over a hundred years, has been to oppress, depress, and repress a broken people, and to make sure they stay that way. They claimed no racist motivations, simply supply and demand, just quit drinking if it's such a big deal. So this camp was standing up to the devastation of dependence, and offered a place of healing to any who struggled with the disease. There was a sweat lodge running, an integral part of a Red Road recovery meeting, and they created a safe sober space to work through the pain of past lives.

There weren't many here, just ten or fifteen really, though community members stopped by for frybread and prayer. But even with such low support staff, I still managed a handful of Rosebud reunions, including my most ornery leader. Yeah, Smokey was helping the camp founder keep everyone in line, frontline, at least until I came traipsing in the back door. No use giving him a new alias, his essence is so recognizable that you'd pick up on it even if I tried to hide him, plus, ain't nobody gonna mess with Smokey. What a great reunion, and not as a boss and chef, but as bonded brothers, we are forever family, and so now it kinda makes sense to just stay here for the eclipse.

We had some of the one-time-use disposable eclipse glasses that I'm sure are now littering the total path, so we just went to the inipi, prayed a bit, and laid on our backs to watch the sun shrink to the tiniest sliver. It got darker, and colder, and through a cloud filter you could almost see it with a naked eye, but no totality. Others will report complete darkness, nocturnal bugs coming alive and trippy circular shadows. Sounds so cool. And I'll probably see it one day, like maybe in seven years when it comes again to coincidentally complete an ecliptical X right over top of Turtle island.

It's tough to not wish I'd been there, but I know I was in the right spot. The protector who insisted on not chasing it, had happened to pull up just before, so our paths of not pushing it had brought us here for another moment together, and now I was laying next to Smokey, oohing and ahhing the black hole sun. Epic. So if not jumping on the bus to totality is the closest thing to regret I've felt all year, I think I can probably live with that one on my conscience.

We helped around camp and set up a giant army tent, they had a whole box truck loaded with supplies from Standing Rock. The Natty Gs may have bulldozed a lot of it, but there are caches of resistance supplies all around the country, so don't think your heartfelt donation was all for naught, you directly empowered this growing movement of unity, bless you, we can absolutely not do it without you.

They put us in a spare tipi for the night, and then another, but with my dead battery, I had to catch the return flight to Rosebud, Greg stayed though. Or I could take the ride to the pipeline protest of Enbridge in minnesota, but no round trip on that one, prob don't want to show up and start asking for an outlet and wifi, no, I think Rosebud it is, for now at least.

*******

It was cool being at Sun Dance after Sun Dance, just the crew, had the chance to get a lot closer to a few of my spiritual leaders, and now I actually had a piece of understanding to bring to the table. We're all here in this world learning about how it works, sharing our insights with one another as we composite a more complete concept of the universe, it takes a tribe to figure it all out. I thought I had learned some songs too, but those were mainly for the lodge, so now that I get to be on the drum with the big boys, I gotta pick up some Sun Dance songs. It's a different beat, the driving heartbeat of Unci Maka, and for all I know it's synced up with the 7.83hz of the Earth, the pulse width modulation of our incoming sun rays, and sung in the key of 432 cycles per second. When you're dancing through the heat and pain for four days, you need some pretty intense prayer music.

We were just sitting around the drum in the cook shack though, every night over cigs and medicine, four or five on the drum, or twelve, and a few high pitched girls on the sideline for their choreographed contribution. I thought I had connected with indian music at camp, just feeling it move me, then my prayer got stronger as I learned songs with Ben and let them lift me above the heat. And the next thing I know, I'm connected to the planet through the vibrations of the drum, and the reverberating drumstick that's aligning my heartbeat with hers. As I learn the words, it gets even more powerful, can't wait to see what its like to understand each translation and feel them in my heart. We offer a little Tobacco to the drum, to the spirits, to the animal who sacrificed his skin so that we can pray, and the tree that gave us the wood - except that this was just a regular old drum kit drum, a big floor tom, the spirits still like to listen though.

If I was a spirit of an ancestor who lived these old ways, I'd certainly be at Sun Dance hanging out, jamming some tunes. And even without a ghostly positioning system, I'd be able to find the passed down ritual. That goes for the sweat lodge too, the ancestors like to sweat, like to pray, they know where and when and how, and we've invited them, and the stones are called 'grandfathers' because they are. And they carry our prayers with them. I don't see them yet, but enough of my medicine people do that I'm convinced.

I pray to Tunkasila, grandfather, ancestors, those who were here before me. And now it's a skeleton crew, so I'm helping set up the lodge and tend the fire. Sounds perfect to me, I have a growing relationship with the peta wakan, and I've got the basics from Ben, so I think I'm ready to up my game - 36 rocks. We prayed real good, real hot, an honor to be in such a personal lodge with the Sun Dance chief, and for him to know me well enough to be able to pray from his heart, for mine.

And when I climbed out, my brother running the door and the stones, pointed up to the sky and asked if I saw what he was seeing. Uh, yeah, that's the same UFOey looking light that we saw changing colors and squiggling around at Standing Rock, on a very important night of intense spirituality, and here it is just as we share this unified prayer with the constellations, hmm.

Haven't seen Bigfoot yet, I guess I wouldn't though. I did hear something walking around my tent one night, bigger than a Dog, smaller than a monster, I just rolled over and sang that protection song.

*******

I woke up alive, so I guess it worked, unless that's a little too Stevie Wonder for you. (Wait, do you mean superstitious or blind faith?) If all the indian lore stuff isn't doing it for you, there's always the untold histories of america's flagship sin - genocide. We won the war against human rights, so we got to choose which tales of valor made it to print, and in our colonized minds, the trail of tears was a candy coated parade. That's one I've at least heard of though, like Wounded Knee, but one of my brothers here holds ancestral trauma from his relatives who were slaughtered in the Blue Water Creek Massacre of 1855.

Now the colonizers refer to it as the Battle of Ash Hollow, makes for a more fair sounding story in Mr White's his-story class, but the New York Times clearly believed that the "lamentable butchery of indians" was a 'massacre' indeed. It all started when a mormon farmer's Cow wandered into Lakota hunting grounds, well, that was a dumb idea, shouldn't someone have put a fence up or something? Of course my brother's relatives killed and ate the Cow, it's kind of our thing, and of course the 'owner' of this particular living organism was none too happy. Luckily the US army was here to protect the privatized settlers and their financial investments of the planet's natural resources, and killing nearly a hundred men, women, and children, should get the point across pretty effectively.

But what's dust is dust, and those bodies have had ample time to return their sacred energies to the Earth's circular motion, however, there are still lingering wounds to be healed and spiritual vibrations to mend. What untold massacre would be complete without a few souvenirs to remind the general of the mayhem? So his story writing 'victors' hunted and gathered some 'artifacts' to take home to the kids, though we of course know these sacred belongings to hold much more than meets the eye.

These are the spiritual possessions possessing the broken spirits of my brother's ancestors, only by returning them to the Earth though a ceremony of healing, will those dissonant vibrations of Unci Maka begin to be repaired. Unfortunately for my Lakota family, and for my two-legged family, and for my Earth family, and for my sickly mother, the white man just sees all this spirit science about our singing planet as some kind of looney tune.

The family heirlooms sit in the basement of the smithsonian. One of General Harney's descendants has been on a path of trying to repair this wound as he atones for his own negative vibrations, he comes to sweat with the family, and he is an advocate for releasing the possessions of spirit. Well, so maybe releasing them is not quite congruent with the business plan of displaying murder cases, but I bet with the current global climate of indian prophecy, we could probably sell a lot more tickets if we exhibit some humanity. You can't have them back, so the best you can hope for is that we decide to dig the skeletons out of our closet and lay them out for the world to see, the privileged white world who can afford to pay to play, but how else will my readers get to have an authentic indian experience as they forget to remember why we are here?

Such a shame that we're too busy putting indians in museums to realize that they still exist. That yet again america was unsuccessful at a genocidal war they claimed to have won, but super successful at propagandating the public to not blink an eye at our current concentration camps, oh sorry, I meant reservations. And when you put it that way, it doesn't sound too bad, kinda like some exclusive dinner for two in downtown colonialsburg, my bad, that's for whites only.

*******

But here on the rez, I'm the one in the minority. I'm the one who feels the watchful eyes of being different. No longer one of the privileged with an assumed access to equality. No lifetime of living here to have taught me anything about how to survive in a world foreign to me. For the first time ever, I feel a fraction of the otherness experienced by 'them.' Just a bit though, they were mainly just curious, and I've never received anything but open arms from every Lakota person I've ever spoken with. But if I look through my new perspective of 'them,' it starts to get scary once I consider the less inviting welcome we've given every race, ever.

I've taken my whole life for granted, it was so easy that I didn't even know it could be hard, because my mom dedicated her life to making it look that way. And my dad brought home a good check, borrowed generational wealth from his dad to start a business, in an industry of good ol' boys, and I was able to get a good family business job and build my first career without college. I walked into gas stations as a kid and wasn't assumed to be a thief around every corner. I was never refused service because of my color. Or just straight up ignored. For my whole life I may have felt like I didn't fit in on the inside, but my outside wore the right shade to grant me access to every convenience of colonized living. If I walked into one of the supremely racist towns that make up the border patrol of the reservation, I would encounter only the friendliest of smiles. "Why, what a sweet young white man you are," and through my filter of privilege, I would never even consider that the infrastructure of hatred, had built walls intended to keep the bigotry from ever escaping the close-minded community.

It's easy to not live near the rez, and assume that if you did, you'd be nice to the indians, even though they are obviously prisoners of the industrial inferiority complex. But once you've opted to actually be honest with yourself about exactly how you got here, it'll be only natural to feel a deep shame for the deplorable mistreatments spanning from settlement to Standing Rock. Consecutive lifetimes of tough luck that conditioned the defeated dakotas to become hardened against the cold shoulders of a white winter. Once your perspective is opened to a point of understanding how your way of life bulldozed over theirs, the worst part of the ancestral guilt is not knowing what to do about it.

What could you possibly do to even begin to right the wrongs of your forefathers? Especially from all the way over here in the east, a land long displaced of any natural heritage, and from the comfort of your couch it seems that you can't do that much at all. So you don't. How could you? You're as lost as coastal indians pushed to the plains. So you've got a good heart and the weight of remorse, but are you just supposed to drive onto the rez and start saving indians? I'm pretty sure that's the same white savior complex that destroyed everything in the first place.

So all you can do is nothing, I guess. Sure, you can talk about it, share your understanding with others, help along this global awakening in your own neighborhood, and that is most certainly a critical component to this revolution. Bringing awareness, without it, how will anyone know that there's something worth fighting for? But just how aware of the public indecency enacted by every progressing politician, are the americans who watch the nightly news before switching over to dancing with the stars?

People are already aware that the government sucks. It's pretty hard to miss. But as long as you vote every couple of years, you've done about all you can do to fulfill your civic duty. So just sit down and shut up, do your work quietly, and if you're good, we might even give you a snack. Forced to slave away in submission for the privilege of eating dinner, and you've earned the right to forget about the fence and bury your head in the bullstuff.

But now you're hip to the adjacent prisons shared by our living stock, our incarcerated indians, and our dependence on the grid, a grid just like the cubicles of fractionated cattle ranches and the gridlock of cellblock C. When you start to see the uncanny parallels, it might get a bit scary, definitely easier to pretend that you don't notice, and no amount of some hippie bringing awareness is going to wake you up, because you were already aware of the travesties of tyranny and decided to throw in the towel. Be prepared for your words to fall onto deaf ears, I am, people don't want to hear you preach about the sins of man and the cage they're trapped in. But keep talking, with a lot of patience and humility, practice more than preach, and you'll eventually get through to them, even if it's years later as they begin their own path of understanding.

*******

So yeah, raise awareness, but I guarantee that the victims of colonization are already hyperaware of the layered assault on their own livelihoods. And in all sincere honesty, it really is hard to know how to go about repaying your true debt to society, there's no boy scout handbook on healing the wounds of our broken population. It's an incredibly daunting task, and the deeper you get, the more disgusted by every facet of your former life you become. You see every shortcut of convenience for the parallel shortchanging of another's well being, and it becomes nearly impossible to function within the borders of the colony, once you realize that the razor wire is not there to keep people out.

I feel for you, and I will continue to help you along this road the best I can, but you will also have to put in some legwork on finding your role in the repairing of humanity. I'm no expert, maybe your God-given job is to sit and do nothing behind the tv. And I do feel bad for not having more 'real-world' advice for you, but that's because there is no middle ground that I could possibly stand on that satisfies this deep need to decolonize.

I couldn't fathom a way to start reversing the forward movement of backwards thinking, from within a system that my very presence inside of, automatically enters me to win the right to oppress. I can't blog about Lakota healing ceremonies and consume the slave trades of another continent's indigenous community. I can't vote to change columbus day's title, if it means paying my tithe to the corporate government whose 'doctrine of discovery' still enables the 'manifest destiny' of colonial superiority. And remind me which candidate's platform was a stance on indigenous rights?

I can no longer be a mindless cog in the systematic demolition of every single culture who cares about anything other than money. So I'm not. I checked out. And this amazing relief of actual freedom has enabled me to build strong relationships and deep understanding on the rez, to create bridges of healing through compassion, and to physically put my body where my mouth is. You wanna help the indians out? Then quit funding the genocide and come over for a friendly piece of frybread, I got the recipe pretty much dialed in by now.

*******

And boy was there frybread, the smell was almost as entrancing as the powwow, the 141st annual Rosebud Fair, one of the biggest baddest dance-offs of the year. And this particular celebration, has been ongoing since its conception a hundred and forty-one years ago, with a victory gathering that followed Custer's defeat. The only war that america had no choice but to admit they lost, and I get to be here to partake in this celebratory reminder, that a united tribe can indeed overpower a conniving government regime. There's hope yet.

I loaded up with the Erenbrooks and we traded songs on the few miles to powwow, hmm, what if songs could be the new currency? The eldest was all decked out in his dancing regalia, he'd collected the entire ensemble piece by piece along his travels, no money, each gift from someone who crossed his path and felt his heart. Feathers and leathers and jingle bells, and he was head-to-toe covered to enter the 'youth traditional' category of this multi-day tournament. We parked in a sea of cars and tents, and a few tipis, but we all tried to picture the scene back in the day, nothing but a field of conical homes and horses.

Tribes came from all over, not just the Sicangu Oyate, it took weeks to travel for some, but the journey was the first leg of the celebration. And with no speed traps, they could be present in each moment of movement, living within nature, not driving a death machine through it, and as they neared the gathering, the merging lanes could get the pre-party started. Imagine a web of excitable parades that all converge at the same location of joyous merriment, sounds pretty great to me, and a bit reminiscent of our uniquely common paths back to unity. Maybe we'll try something like it after we defeat the government too, we could make it a tradition or something.

As promised, there was a carnival and mud trucks, but I was unable to peel myself away from the dancing arbor. Kinda like at Sun Dance, but less sacred and more spectacle, complete with a light pole in place of the tree. And thirty-six drums under the shade of the perimeter, each surrounded by incredible singers, a roaming microphone amplifies the action and a boisterous announcer pumps up the volume.

We find our crew's drum and set up behind them just in time for grand entry, the opening ceremony of the powwow, where we'll see all of the dancers entering the arbor. All ages, toddlers to grandmas, the entire gamut of the teething process, and each sporting the official attire for one of the very different styles of dance. The Turkey feathered traditional, and the best dancers almost resemble the bird as they two-step and robotically crane their necks around the circle. The women shake their jingle dresses and arise such a clatter, each 'bell' covering the outfit is handcrafted from the metallic lid of a can of skoal or copenhagen, dipping tobacco, and a way more pleasant use for refuse than constructing a landfill. The grass dance has transformed chores into pastime as its sweeping steps perform the function of utility, it is how the tribe lays the grass down before setting up camp, far more efficient and far less pokey than the hokey landscaping of the lawnmower man.

But my favorite by far, are the fancy dancers. Each fast-paced dance move covered with an intricate composition of bright colors, from afar they seem to be of similar design, creating a unified field of friendly competition, but as you get closer, the differences in detail are mesmerizing. The women don a colorful shawl that catches air as they spin in the wind, and beaded outfits almost as fancy as their footwork. The men wield two large arrays of feathers and ribbon on their backs, and carry some nunchuk things that remind me of the poi glowsticks I used to spin at raves. Remarkable flows of choreographed movements, but with complete freedom of style, an ensemble piece of improvised interaction, just like the dress code's formula woven with the personality of each participant.

Or like our existence here on Earth. All of life the same source, encased in this material world in an infinite amount of meticulous manifestations, but still within the common framework of living. And the humans, from the outside world we all look the same, but as you zoom in, you find that no two of us are alike. We've each got a unique perspective on experiencing this journey here on Earth. Endless differences of skin color conditioning, and our astral projections influence our diversity even wider than the dakota night sky. We are all intricate individuals that interlock to create this cosmic mosaic of magnificence. We are all human. The dancers here each express their own personality, but there is zero conflict, they know that by working together to create harmony in their movements around the circle, they are bringing an incredible tapestry to life. It's about time the rest of us figured that one out too.

*******

Don't worry, you won't feel too out of place in this patchwork star quilt, the grimy fingers of your father's capitalism have already managed to infiltrate the festivities. The powwow is free to attend of course, and there's a long line awaiting a complimentary bowl of Buffalo soup and frybread, but there's also a line of vendors eager to pocket a profit. No judgements or anything, they're only trying to survive in a world we built around them, and earning your keep on the powwow circuit is a fine way to reduce your footsteps into colonization.

The top dancers will all take a cut, and the drums get paid, plus the most beautiful handiwork of leather and beads. But, this event has been opened up to outside vendors who sling mass-produced merchandise, those who can afford a booth rental too steep for your average beadsmith. But that also funds the giveaways to the artists of song and dance, those who pay the bills with the sweat of their creative energy, not the generators of the indian taco food truck. What a quizzler.

I was also a tad confused at the obsessive amount of american flags flying around the arbor. Wasn't america the country we were celebrating the defeat of? Indeed, but many natives are also proud veterans of the united states military. They are a people who are not afraid to die, often making up their own elite squadrons, in fact, Crazy Horse's war strategies are still taught to troops during basic training, as are Apaches armed with tomahawks.

They are prepared to defend their homeland at all costs. Even if their captors are the commanders, that doesn't alleviate their duty to protect Turtle Island. There's of course rampant racism among the ranks, and if you thought returning white veterans had a hard time re-assimilating to the alcoholic streets of hopelessness, just imagine the struggle of reentering a country who stole your homeland, after you've realized that they shipped you off just to steal another's.

The flags honor the sacrifice of the vets, and at dusk they assemble to take them down in ceremony. From the government's drones it looks like we are patriots of the new england, but we know that this taking down of american flags is a symbolic gesture of removing Custer's flag over his cold dead body. And at some powwows, they even reenact the original instruction of dragging the defeated flag in the dirt as they complete a sunwise orbit of the arbor.

Not that killing anyone is anything to be proud of, and they certainly attempted peaceful negotiations under treaty flags first, but only to experience the brutal massacre of their eldest leaders, a vital step to eradicating the traditional ways of a passed-down connection to anything other than wifi. And traditionally, it's far more honorable to 'count coup' than to kill an enemy, to sneak up behind him and tap his shoulder, to express the sentiment that, "I could have done it," but to exude the understanding that we are all related. A peaceful tactic of conflict resolution, a chance to settle out of court, and the mark of a good warrior is the number of feathers in his war bonnet, each symbolizing the coup count, not a murder.

And now that the flags of oppression are out of sight with the sun, the lights come on to illuminate the final rounds of competition, the best of the best, this is what we've all been waiting for. The tiny kids are super cute and all, but the veterans of dance have some truly incredible talent. It's tough to keep up with it all, each dancer can draw you in with every move as you study the hundreds of hours that went into each outfit, plus there's the magic of taking in the big picture all at once, as you view the intricate tapestry from an outside observer's perspective. And all while getting into the music, trying to catch a familiar song or two, and somehow trying to fit in another piece of frybread.

It was cool to see people I knew from Sun Dance, excited that I wasn't just a tourist, but that I was actually starting to become a part of the community. Of course, that's about the time I started feeling the pull to leave.

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

tells us that a towel is the most vital item to travel with,

but I'm sticking with my pillow.

*******

I had finished the latest draft of the book, a milestone I didn't mind hitting while connected to the prayerful prairie, but the thing about an ebook, is that you need to be online to publish it. I could probably just find a phone to copy and paste, but I knew that as much as I hated it, I needed a solid calendar week of clocking into the grid for daily internet disconnection. And I still had to design the cover, I mean, the e-cover. I wasn't getting antsy yet, I knew it would all come together at the right time, I just wanted to smoke a cig and think about it all.

But, alas, just like with any good resistance camp, we were out of papers. We searched and scraped, but cupboards were bare, so I went on a few overt missions. The first was to the tree to pray, not about smokes, but about forward momentum. Then I walked the grounds and picked up outlying trash, and with the very last piece, I found two rained-on papers. That'll work. For now.

So an hour later we were back on the hunt, my closest spiritual guide mentioned a convenient store a few miles away, and he happened to have a few dollar bills to feed the habits of the revolution. I had a pretty free schedule, so I quickly volunteered to take a hike, although he was certain that someone would stop and pick me up on the way.

Hitchhiking is another one of those things that I knew would be on my path. Without me personally purchasing petroleum, it was apparent that I would be hopping in with strangers who were already headed that way, but I haven't tried it so far. He said it was easy on the rez, a roadside walker isn't looked down on as a second-class citizen, they're just another member of your family walking around.

Cars come and go on the rez, and some never had them, so if you happen to be the one driving that day, you're eager to stop and offer a lift to a relative who could've just as easily been you. I'm obviously no Sicangu, which could slow some down from stopping, but he was pretty sure that someone would pull over just to see what this southern boy was doing out here in south dakota.

I took off footing it, down to catch a ride, but also ready for a personal walkabout. And I had just crossed another boundary that seemed foreign to me - for the first time since Standing Rock, I touched money.

And I felt it. I felt a wave of grossness as he put a couple dollars in my hand, perhaps a feeling of discord as my current walk through life collided with capitalism, or maybe an actual vibration that I felt grab my hand as I was pulled away from spirit, and back into the material world. I shoved it in my pocket real quick, and only removed it with the sleeve of my shirt. I understand that I sound crazy most of the time, and that even if I've convinced you of the evils of a fiscal philosophy, it's a far-fetched step to get you to believe in something inherently evil about a physical representation of monetary value. I'll assume the disconnect was in my head, not in my heart, but I will also cringe at every instance that my hand plays a part in the circulation of indebtedness to the noteworthy federal reserve.

*******

They own the country, and your income tax is their dividend check, which essentially grants them a third of your self worth. And they taxed the income of your employer before you, double dipping. But the worst bit, is the part about controlling interest rates and cash flow of a country who they are the sole source of financial backing for, and that every dollar bill issued is due back to them with interest. And the loan is only payable with more borrowed money, which is taxed at every step of income and outcome, leaving the nation in a similar position of poverty as the people they were pretending to represent.

They determine the inflation of balloon payments and the bail out of banks, both of which seem to be fairly beneficial to their own bottom line. They're the unquestioned deciders of economic policy, responsible for more crashes than drunk senators, yet not an official branch of the government. Nope, the federal reserve is a private corporation that prints their own money, as they collect the debt of a nation, and they've managed to run up our tab to 200 trillion buckaroos, even though there's only 80 trillion in circulation.

1913, in true washington style, congress passed the federal reserve act during christmas break. They would now print the money that they would loan to us, regulate its effect on the economy, and all we had to do was pay them the interest on the national debt, through the income tax. The income tax amendment was never ratified, and the fact that an amendment was even thought of, makes it apparent that it's unconstitutional, plus Woodrow Wilson had this to say:

"I am a most unhappy man. I have unwittingly ruined my country. A great industrial nation is controlled by its system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated. The growth of the nation, therefore, and all our activities are in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated governments in the civilized world - no longer a government by free opinion, no longer a government by conviction and the vote of the majority, but a government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men."

We already know that the entire colonial infrastructure is built to govern and suppress, but he could see that the prosperity and abundance being received by the privileged middle class of an industrialized nation, was about to be siphoned off by the lifeforce collection agency. Before then, people didn't pay income tax. Imagine that, how much more privileged you could feel with the missing third replaced in each week's pay check. The federal reserve was created by bankers, in order to charge americans for the operation of the bank, it's kinda like the machine that builds machine building machines.

*******

Nothing new here though, central banks control all of the global superpowers, and were publicly denounced by plenty of american presidents, especially those who mysteriously fell victim to assassination, which seems to make sense when you think about the privatized agendas of world war profiteering. The same entities own enemies, and fuel each side of every conflict of interest with the capital needed to blow themselves further into debt.

This is no new thing, the Rothschilds are fairly well known for their armored bank heist of nations, including ours, where they installed J.P. Morgan to head up the Federal Reserve scheme. His alliance to Rockefeller's standard oil intertwined the two, along with corporations like General Electric and DuPont, who all seem to destroy the planet for a paycheck, and happened to be financed by the same international crime syndicate. These companies, along with their subsidiaries Remington and Winchester, were then contracted to manufacture war crimes. They were even ahead of schedule, so Morgan Jr now moved to enter the country into the first global conflict, and the international bank cartel profited from every angle of the war machine. But don't take my words for it, even our senate agreed that we'd been manipulated into world war for the boom of their bottom line.

And not that much has changed, as our war-torn planet continues to be demolished in exchange for little scraps of paper. Sure, there's deeper webs of conflict interest, but with generational inbreeding among the powers-that-be, that would be most expected. Like how George W. Bush was hired by a company owned by the Carlyle Group, which he then ran into the ground faster than he did the country, and once they got him elected as the governor of texas, he opted to invest the state's pension fund into the pockets of Carlyle. Their new office is located right between the white house and the capital building, which is extra convenient once you see the long list of washington insiders that have been hired by the company, including the first George Bush, while his son was still in office. Among their billionaire stockholders are the Bin Laden family, who happened to be in a conference with Carlyle execs on the morning of september eleventh, and conveniently they were meeting on the other side of town, far from the conspiracies of their world trade headquarters.

We now entered the unwinnable 'war on terror', a never ending spiral of declining national security, but luckily we have private contractors that can enforce the evictions of whatever natural resource we set our eyes on. And who are these contractors might you ask? Well, that'd be the Carlyle Group. They manufacture the latest greatest death machines of doom, stuff like futuristic mech-warriors and anti-aircraft missile launchers, and their stocks seem to go up with every skirmish. They have a revolving door hiring policy, as they recruit influential government officials, like defense secretaries, and they send their own representatives to officiate the government. They make money from mass-murder, and they fabricated the weapons of mass-destruction lie, and I remind you that our president's dad was on the payroll as he advised his son to go to war.

War is privatized, which means for profit, and the corporations who pocket the proceeds are in bed with the government who decides to send our babies off for slaughter. Or they decide to genocide an entire population of some lesser nation, one who americans will hardly even be able to pronounce, let alone care anything about. And now we've reached the modern warfare of nuclear disarmament, which sounds like a great plan, even in korea, especially knowing that a worldwide nuclear war isn't anyone's idea of a good time. Just one problem, nobody makes any money from disarmament.

The nuclear weapons manufacturing industry brings in trillions, and they've spent lifetimes of research and development to calculate the odds of us blowing up our planet, which they don't want to do either, but if they stop making them, then it's game over. From railroads to mushroom clouds, a job's a job, and a dollar's a dollar, and when you prioritize money over life, bad people are free to run the world, as they destroy it. And as much as I hate to even touch these units of our gross domestic products, I'm really starting to need that smoke.

*******

I walked a mile or so, and as I started down a gravel road, a couple of young guys in a pickup scooped me. They were conveniently headed to the same store that I was, a tiny corner mart at the edge of the rez. It looked like a disheveled closet, the only place for more than ten miles, which explains the ability for a white guy to charge six dollars for a ninety-nine cent loaf of bread. I overpaid for the papes and hit the road, then those same dudes rolled back by and lifted me the rest of the way. First hitchhike complete, cool, tomorrow I'll try to make it to an actual town.

I don't mind walking really. I get to take in every detail, every rock, I can talk to curious dogs, and trees, I can practice songs and pray and discuss deep philosophical topics with myself. The skies are wide open here, and the only inclement weather we've seen was an all-of-a-sudden crazy thunderburst hailstorm, just as we were climbing out of the inipi... where we sang that thunder song. But that just gave us an excuse to huddle in the cook shack while we made Buffalo bites and sang some more.

It does get a little warm walking in august, especially the twenty miles I'm trying to cover. I'm not standing around waiting for a lift though, I'm not even asking anyone for a ride, I figure the person I'm meant to meet will feel compelled to pull over all on their own. I look behind me at the cars approaching, and step off of the road for them to pass, a subtle signal that I'm not just out for a morning jog, but no pressure to do anything but wave.

And right on cue, as soon as I walk the mile to the intersection, a car stops on the way to the town I'm looking for. Not some cooky coincidence of cosmic connection, it's simply the closest town and this is the only route, which makes this the absolute easiest road to hitchhike on in america, in my experience at least.

The two guys get my credentials, and as instructed, I name drop Harvey, which steers the conversation down the Red Road. They asked if I was connecting with the Sun Dance way, and then wanted to hear all about my spiritual awakening at Standing Rock. Most of the indians I've known so far had been at the prayer camp, the exceptions being only the recent introductions at Sun Dance, and anyone out there was of a particular prayer vibration as well. So I have no idea what to expect from a native living on the rez without this way of life.

I kind of assumed that all of them held the chanupa sacred, a pretty colonized assumption considering what I know about the generational genocide of Lakota spirituality. But people are waking up all over the world, and the indians are the least removed from the DNA of Unci Maka, so they stand a good shot of getting out of bed before the alarm goes off. Everyone here knows about Standing Rock at least, but even though our subcamp was started by this tribe and led by a Sicangu warrior, only a tiny fraction of the faction made it out there. It wasn't their fight, or they had to work, or drink, or they just weren't connected enough to feel the call in their heart, so now I find myself sharing stories of spirit as I inspire my Lakota brothers to find their own path to creation.

They drop me off in town and I walk around casing the block for internet, get it, get in, get out. I'm not publishing here, I'm just putting out feelers for whichever way calls me, I'll send a few messages and let the universe do the work overnight. Then I gotta walk out to the city limits to catch a ride back, otherwise everyone just thinks you're tromping through town. I started to pick up trash on my way, mainly looking for stray cigarettes, and too quickly realized that I could never carry it all. And sometimes I've seen piles of bagged garbage on the side of the road, and as you enter most reservations there's a "no dumping" disclaimer, because the people who live in neighboring rural areas will drive onto the rez just to abandon their burden of waste on indian land.

Just more white people polluting the small piece of Earth that we haven't yet seized from a lesser class of human. Not that you feel this way, but just know that the ambassadors who represent america in the relations between 'us' and 'them,' the white folk who surround the rez, they do. An up-and-coming Lakota warrior may have lived his whole life and never had a positive interaction with old whitey, and with that kind of conditioning, how's he ever going to understand anything other than bigotry outside of the rez? I know these people, I know their deep pain, I know their path of healing, I know their strong warrior spirit, these are not people that we want to be facing off with, they are allies. You better hope they are at least.

The mistreatment of natives is not a long forgotten blemish on america's untarnished reputation, it is happening on every level at this very instant, and while it may not be you pulling the trigger, your elected officials are authorized to shoot on your behalf. Unless you stand up and tell them not to. Unless you get in their face and prioritize life over the economy. Unless you'd rather be another silent partner, of yet another generation, who seemed to be just fine with the oppression of yet another race of people, as long as you can have your consumer class SUV.

Were the americans who didn't live near plantations, not responsible for our country's slave trade in the name of fashion? Did they not have a duty to see that their countrymen treated humans with decency? And they did, they even went to war over it, then the civilization of america devolved into this fractured mess, and now the fight against evil is lucky to get a few facebook likes.

*******

There is a war against hate, we were recruited, or maybe we were groomed all along. We gave up our lives and stood up for humans that needed our help, we didn't think that it wasn't our battle. We knew that countries crumble at the missletips of american superiority, so a tomahawk tribe is going to be outgunned from every angle, and as american citizens we had a duty to stand up for the lives threatened by our own empire. Only americans can stop america. If you only worry about the things that are 'your problem,' then your government is free to commit grievous acts of oppression in your name, like suppressing a 15,000 person movement of peace in the name of indigenous rights. But probably good you stayed out of it, cause now that you got a pipe going in your backyard, you'll have plenty of time to figure it out on your own.

JK, we'll be there. There is a revolution against the corporate takeover of our planet. If you feel a moral obligation to stand up for her, or for them, or for anyone in your life that means anything to you, then you have a civic duty to put your body where your heart is. Join us in the fight and depend on us in the struggle. Just call us. By phone or by prayer. We are the water protectors, defenders of the sacred, warriors of Unci Maka, and it'll be way easier to get ahold of us if you're already on the family plan.

We can only win united. They want us separated as we each fight our divided battles, split our numbers so as to keep us silent, because they know that the moment we understand that we are all related and rise up with one unified voice of resistance, will be the instant that their entire charade crumbles and the metamorphosis of humanity will occur. So let's get this party started already.

*******

Next day I walk to the mailbox to check for evites. Only make it to that first intersection before my path intersects with another's, they can only take me halfway, but within about thirty seconds of dropping me, a little old grandma grabs the baton. We have such an engaging conversation, reminds me of the instant connection I feel with my other Lakota grandmas, so once I log in, I send a few love notes from my heartsong. And I logged onto facebook. Ugh. I hadn't been on here since I made a hurried post for proof of life. I'd been disappeared, checked out, so the instant I showed up online, I got bombarded.

Tough not to get overwhelmed, but super nice to talk to some long lost water protectors, it's easy to see the allure of this mindless suck of data mining in the name of conveniently forgetting the world around you. Certainly a tool for information sharing, awareness, and I was being informed that they were in the market for a late-night snack chef at the Line 3 camp. One of my dearest pals was there, and they made it sound pretty appealing, though I still have that dumb book to publish before I can dig back into the trenches.

Also talked to my brother Ziggy Zag. He had recently been with some of the water protectors who had shown up here, and one of his hometown cohorts made an appearance too, so I'd hoped that he would pop in for a hug, but turns out that he was a long way from the dakotas. Though, now he was talking about making a trip this direction soon, to deliver a truck of winter clothes to the rez, cool, and I got invited to roll with him and sleep in the van. Or if I needed more convenience, I could stay at his friend's house... ha. But I could use their wifi.

I made a few other connections and checked in with my mom, she's the only one I have regular contact with. I try to keep her up to date with what state I'm in and reassure her that I'm safe, both of which are a tad complicated when I'm sometimes unsure of either. Her unconditional love and understanding, and faith that I can do anything that my heart desires, is incredibly empowering as I continue to illuminate the darkened path into the unknown.

I messaged my dad too, not the same connection, but with my new understanding of cosmological consciousness, I've now dissolved any lingering resentment that had been weighing me down. I genuinely do look forward to the day that we break bread again, and are able to sincerely open our hearts to each other's life way. I also asked about our native ancestry, turns out that our bloodline's a little thicker than I thought, I got a name of a biological Cherokee grandma, cool, now I can go to the tribal office and look up ledgers. Or maybe the web of water protection will manifest a relative miracle, I know first hand of several reunions between unknown cousins who reported for duty in the family foxhole.

My reunion to technology was not as welcoming. The vibrations of the computer, and wifi radiation, and concrete, and traffic, and angles, and all the things, were not all that conducive to maintaining my harmonious balance. My conditioned sensitivity to colonization, both through the cleanest consumption of farm life and the spiritual elevation of Sun Dance, had me in a place of attunement that made a jump into a world of disconnection, feel like an earthquake in my soul. So I put my soles to the concrete and got on up outta there.

*******

I got to the edge of town and caught a ride next to a backseat baby who was as talkative as a grandma. They were headed into Rosebud proper, near the powwow grounds, which meant that they were forking off of the road that took me directly to the outskirts. I could get dropped off at the branch, but I figured that it was just as easy to hitchhike from Rosebud, probably easier, in fact.

Started stepping again, a passing thought confirmed that I could use a snack, and I looked down to see a stray caramel cube leftover from the parade. Gross, some would say, but I'm grateful for any gift from the candy gods, although you're right, the refined sugar is pretty gnarly for my health. I walked a few miles, a bit longer than I had anticipated really, but it gave me a chance to sing through my growing database of songs. Just like any other pathway, you have to use them or you'll lose them. It's easy to sing along once someone has opened up a tune, but quite different to be able to call up the lead line on your own.

So I sang them all, four rounds each, intermittent with prayers of finding my route on the path ahead, moving in a good way, but feeling a slight angst about still being here without direction, and uncertain of my current place in the global scale of healing. And at the exact instant that I finished the last line of the last song, a car pulls up to remind me that I am in the precise location necessary for my heart to have the biggest impact on humanity.

The driver's window rolls down and she asks where I'm headed, was just praying about that one actually, but I keep it simple and tell her that I'm going only a few more miles up the road. "Oh, so you don't need a ride then?" Well, I wouldn't quite put it that way, I did just run out of songs to fuel my feet. I express my gratitude for her generosity and she immediately calls in the favor, "Actually, can you drive? I'm pretty drunk. And I've got my six year old with me." Holy...

*******

Absolutely. Without hesitation. And that was even before I saw the terror in the little girl's eyes. The fear for her own life, and that sadness she felt for her mom's condition, a diseased depression that had her out there wasted by three on a tuesday afternoon. The quivering voice of innocence reports that, "She's already run off the road twice, and almost hit a tree." Thank God I randomly accepted a ride down a different road and just so happened to not get picked up for the longest stretch of inconvenience I've walked yet. Thank you Tunkasila.

I got behind the wheel, and the hitchhikers role was reversed as I asked where she was headed. "Oh, you can just take me as far as you were going, I can figure it out from there." Um, no ma'am. I don't quite think I'd get the most restful sleep - for the rest of my life - if I allowed you to drive off into the sunset of your darkening condition. She told me her destination, and now my itinerary made even more sense, they lived in the same tiny town that I had broken my ridesharing teeth in. I knew exactly how to get to the gravel road that she lived on, and I knew that it was walkable back to Sun Dance, I think it might even be closer than my current coordination.

She was flabbergasted that I was willing to drive out of my way and walk the backtrack alone, but at the insistence of no inconvenience, and the assurance that it was technically still saving me some steps, she conceded that it was probably a good idea. Plus, it would give us a few more moments to share in each others company.

I know that my role in this movement is not exclusively chauffeur to the intoxicated, though I would walk the edge of this road until the end of time if that's where I'm needed. I am a counselor, a listener, an understander, a friend without judgement, and although I have much to learn on my own journey of connection, I also know that I already have the ability to help others along their own path of spiritual growth. Now, if I can just figure out how to put that into words.

We managed to share a bunch of words on the miles we put behind us, and the miles between us, "What is a country boy from north carolina doing all the way out here in the middle of Rosebud reservation?" I told her about my journey to Sun Dance, and Standing Rock, and sweat lodge, "and you didn't melt in there?" This thirty-something Lakota woman, living just a few miles from the Sun Dance tree, had never been in an inipi. "And you believe in all that 'God' stuff?" I shared a bit of my coming to light story, assured her that she wouldn't burn up for going in a lodge, and let her share with me some of her burden. Let me help you carry that while you get back on your feet sister.

She didn't want to be an alcoholic anymore than her daughter wanted her to be, she knew she had a problem, she knew she shouldn't drive drunk, she knew that she loved her daughter and would rather die than cause her any harm, but she had a chemical dependence on a drug legally sold in the refrigerated section. Predisposed from birth, by both genetics and a povertous lifetime of trying to escape, but with each sip of forgetting she falls farther away from the edge of the cage. Tough to see a way out of here, might as well sit back down for another.

I didn't ask her to change, who am I to evaluate her path, but we did both express a deep desire for her to have the strength to not be in a compromised position when her daughter's life was at stake. I get it, or I get that I can't. I see the claws of alcoholism, I haven't felt them in the same way, but I have been there for brothers who suffer. I understand that I can't understand, I can only love, and listen. I can't begin to feel the emptiness from a destructed way of life, rez life at every level, and to know that she didn't have a drop of prayer, makes me grateful that I have enough to go around. I can't imagine a life of lifted veil, where you are fully aware of the evils around you, and a target for many of them, to see all of the hidden truths of the material, but to not have this connection to spirit that comforts you with the knowledge of 'one.' Certainly possible to see the allure of the easy ways out of this impossible situation.

She wondered what was next for me. Good question. "You mean you're leaving that soon, but you don't even know where you're going?" Pretty much. "And you're not scared?" Not at all. I have this growing connection and I know that if I follow my heart, it will always take me to the right place. Kinda like how I accidentally hitchhiked a different path than normal, walked a few extra miles, and there I was as she passed by. I was doing what felt right and it all worked out. Click. It hit her, "I think God put you there on that road so that you could help me." Me too.

We get to the end of her driveway and she hops out, gives me a chance to share a few words with the little one, "I love you. She loves you too, so much, she's just sick right now. You keep being strong, ok, and pray, especially when you get scared. I'll see you soon."

Mom walks around to my side and we share a hug, a thank you, and a genuine "no problem." All in a day's work. I did hope for a spare cig, but she was fresh out, figures. I turned around and started towards camp, and when I looked back she was still standing by the car, looking in my direction. I made sure she didn't need anything else, and "nope, I just want to stand here and watch you walk away for a minute."

Woah dude. That just happened. Spirit just traveled through me and delivered her a guardian angel. I just saved two lives. Today for sure, and maybe I even helped tomorrow. I really got through to her, but she was also drunk, so who knows what she recalls in the morning, though I bet she'll remember me at just the right time down the road. And I pray that I had an impact on the girl, that I gave her hope or prayer or an inspiration to not get entangled in the cyclical destruction that had her mom pinned down. I pray that she remembers me when it seems that no one else in the world loves her. I love her. And I meant it. And I pray that she could feel that.

And I could feel the genuine connection between her mom and I, across the divide of race related borders, and it felt pretty good to know that I could contribute to the healing of the generational wounds handed down through our ancestors. Who knows what her interactions with the white man have been thus far, likely a biased view of a bigoted bloodline, but now she might realize that there's actually some pretty decent white folk out here too. And her daughter, at the age where her skin conditioning will have the most impact, raising herself in a world surrounded by racial oppression, but don't you remember that white dude that saved the day that one time?

And what a glorious day it was. I was on top of the world. Never caught a ride and couldn't be happier about walking the rest of the way. The universe just shot me a big, "I told you so." I told you that I got you. That as long as you stick with me, we're gonna do big things. Trust. And I do.

And I found a big fuzzy leaf of Mullein on the way back, a plant that I recently read about healing staph infections, which a few Erenbrook kids were suffering from, and now I had a small open sore on my finger... Picked a leaf, spit on the wound, and tied a piece on with some string. No disney cartoon or neosporin, but the next day the bb-sized sore was completely healed. No joke. Solid layer of skin. What a glorious day for healing on the rez.

*******

I really was leaving soon, I promise, one last trip to town and I'd have it all figured out, and this time the hitchhike was flawless... I just hopped on the bus. They were headed that way already, so we made a singsong event of it, and it only took me a half hour at the library to manifest an exit strategy. Got back to camp and I went straight to Harvey's trailer up the hill, I was leaving tomorrow, so I wanted to thank him for this amazing chance to pray with him. We worked in the yard a bit, transplanted some flowers, then sat down for coffee and smokes. I hadn't shared my growing philosophies, or that I'd written a book about them, so it was really nice for him to hear the words on my heart in this personal way. And he talked about the UFO conference coming up, he was thinking about going, there'll probably be some hybrids there.

There was a sweat tonight too. Perfect timing. Always. But I was actually gonna sit this one out, pretty unlike me to shy away from a chance to pray, but I wasn't exactly going to sit down either. I'd been helping to firetend since ceremony ended, and tonight they asked me to run rocks, on my last night, to carry the sacred role of firekeeper as I carry glowing stones up the steps, for two simultaneous lodges, one for men and one for women. What an amazing honor.

And while it may seem that it would have been better for me to have been inside, as the doorkeeper I got an extra bit of prayer vibration from the lodge, as well as the words I heard through the open second door that made me feel pretty good about my upcoming trip. I mean, I had a medicine man praying about my spiritual journey, explain to me how it could possibly get any cooler than that.

And the next day I left. I took my time saying toksa to the kids, and the rest of the stragglers, packed up the borrowed tent and left it for the next person, and once it felt right to leave, I took off for one final hitchhike, pillow in hand. I walked a pretty good ways too, to the intersection and then another several miles to the next turn off. I'd made a cardboard sign and used a coat hanger to attach it to my bag, "pierre," figured I should let passing motorists know that I was traveling about ninety miles this time.

Whew. Hope I don't have to walk the whole way, but I can, though I figured I was probably just on another mission. A day to save or something. Sang songs, an incoming spiritual tutor of mine stopped in the road, the only one that I hadn't gotten the chance to say toksa to, and then I just about stepped on a young Copperhead all squiggled up in the road. Good thing I was thinking about mindfulness, and I took it as a pretty good sign that I didn't get bit. The snake medicine does seem to be following me as I transmute the energies of my path, and Copperheads aren't even common in SD, and lucky for him that he was too small to eat. Found a feather for my hat, no macaroni though, and as I made it to the turnoff for pierre, my manifested ride also just happened to be driving by.

He actually drove past me, saw the sign, something told him he should stop, he was heading to pierre anyway, and he had a feeling that I was a water protector. Whether it was the new feather in my hat or my dirty brown cords, he circled back and scooped me, and through conversation and vague frozen memories, we were pretty sure that we had spent time together at Echo 3 in december.

No way. So cool. Never fails to amaze me. I shared my book's thesis, and he was right there with me, he'd been trying to get camps on the rez started to give people a free, safe alternative to the madness out there. What a good trip. Could have gotten picked up earlier and pieced together a route with several layovers, but I walked the extra mile and got a doorstep delivery from a relative. Aho.

*******

My time at Sun Dance was officially over. The energy of the place had affected me. My prayer was stronger. I shared my vibration with the tree before I left. I offered Tobacco and collected some Sage, spreading her seeds to ensure her proliferation. I sang the protection song. I was stepping beyond the perimeter of the closest thing I had to a plan all year. This was the beginning of the next chapter.

### III. Unci

Unci Maka, wopila tanka,

thank you so much for this incredible gift of life.

We are so grateful for the abundance you provide us everyday.

Please help us to see how we can begin to repair the damages we've caused, how we can heal these wounds of separation between 'us' and 'them,' how we can rebuild the interconnectedness of an existence

unremoved from the nature that created us.

Please help us to feel your love in our hearts,

especially those of us who are lost out in that other world.

Thank you so much for this path of healing,

for the strength you give us to persevere,

and for opening up our hearts to pray in this way.

Thank you for humility, patience, and understanding,

and please help us to share these things

with the world in a good way.

Aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

*******

Traveling in this freestyle manner that I do, is extra interesting considering that I don't have good phone coverage, though, I am trying to get signed up for a new cellular communication family plan. I think I'm at the right address, no answer at the door though, could search for the vibrational disconnection of wifi radiation, but before I know it, Unci Carolyn comes walking up the road. So good to see her again, and to know that now we'll have the proper space and time to actually reconnect on a deeper level, although this is by far the most colonized community I've been in since camp.

Pierre, SD, or fort pierre to be more historically accurate, the state capital, and she's just a block or two away from four lanes of strip mall. Well, at least we should be able to find better food than on the rez, and we do, barely. The dakotamart has a four-foot wide organic section, and... nope, that's pretty much all we could find. There was a fresh local produce market just down the street, and when Carolyn asked them if they carried anything organic, they just gave her a blank stare of perplexion. They seemed to not even understand what that meant.

"Never been asked that one before, of course they are, it grew out of the ground, didn't it? We even ordered them fancy seeds from monsanto's, you ain't even got to spray them chemicals on there no more, them newfangled scientists figured out how to put the poison right there in the DNAs. Now if they could just do the same with the nuclear fertilizer, then we'd really be in bidness."

I think that this entire bioregion managed by king corn, is under his influence of toxic persuasion. It only costs a bit more for a bag of the upgraded seeds, and you get so much more yield with so much less work, so convenient, and almost enough to pull us out of debt this year. For this demographic to understand the importance of clean eating, would be to the detriment of the monsantofactured seed industry, as farmers began to feel compelled to plant actual food. Nope, it is imperative that these fine midwestern folk are lost in a fog of thinking that they're living the simple life, even though they only eat the most complex chemical compounds available. And every time I saw a cart of Corn beside the road on the way here, I cringed, at best it's poisoned inside and out, but there's always the chance it's some of the 3/5ths of our country's Corn bioengineered for industrial usage only.

So now we've converted several states to the exclusive production of monocrop, completely erased vast expanses of vibrant ecosystem, murdered any chance of any other animal ever eating again as we claimed complete ownership over every drop of life rained down from the Sun, and then we use even more of it to build more machines for destroying more ecosystems. And somehow we still think that we're the most intelligent species.

We have managed to refine our extraction techniques of maximizing the capital removed from our planet, and we know that it's 'our' planet, because of our superior evolutionary adaptation of drawing squiggly lines and pretending they mean something. And our imagination truly is our strongest character trait, not only can we make up abstract concepts like symbols that supposedly mean stuff, or paper scraps that supposedly mean stuff, or governmental societies that do mean stuff, but coupled with our supreme thumbpower, we can literally imagine the future and bring it into existence. We have the power to manifest reality, with our minds and hearts and voice, and our hands, but we've forgotten how to build anything but fences.

We do still love to imagine the idea of nature, it's fun to sit inside and watch tv shows about it, at least until they're picked up by the history channel. We even reserve national forests just to look at, though they are operated by the US department of agriculture, and the forestry service is there to facilitate selective logging and nepotistic contracts. There's also a full-time road crew always at work, endlessly carving new paths to overlook all the pristine nature, but if they stop paving, then they'll stop getting paid.

*******

I mean, that's what the whole thing's about, right? Civilization, progress, economic growth, and the classic trades are the build up on the surface of the Earth, as we construct a cage of asphalt and concrete that chokes her out. Carpenters, roofers, painters, and my own lineage of electricians and hardwood flooring, the most respectable crafts as Bob the builder builds america, developing boring old ecology into beautiful sprawling suburbs.

Grotesque amounts of my brothers in the tree nation had to take the fall, but at least this one's from a sustainable forest, I mean a tree farm, yet another grid of imprisoned monocrop with one species in mind. Forests have complexly woven biological conclusions, thousands of species compose an incredible equilibrium of diversity and abundance. Tree farms are akin to that lonely row of Corn, packed in for max yield, and devoid of any microbiologic connection to anything other than the gene that creates telephone poles. Tree farms are not forests.

So do you like the other option better then? Clearcutting? Demolishing a proper forest and erasing the blueprint of evolution, but at least now there's more free land to develop into our high-rising housing complex. I bet in the Lakota language, one born of the Earth, that our concept of 'developing' the planet would translate into words more like 'homicidal devastation,' and they'd probably reserve 'develop' for the zillions of years of universing that perpetually progressed the growth of the forest that you just sent to china.

The mindless expansion of our civilization is overpowering the Earth's ability to sustain us. There are more than six times the amount of empty houses than homeless people in america. Nearly twenty million vacated premises. Why on Earth do we need more? Nobody that can do anything about it, can, because it would be their own livelihood at stake if construction slowed. And what a sad trap that they don't even realize they're in, synonymizing money and life, but that's life, gotta make a buck no matter what, and even those that see the destruction directly associated with just about every occupation ever invented, they still have to check-in to babylon to make ends meet. How else am I ever going to own enough property to build a big brand new american life and escape the woes of the world?

It's just a job, gotta get paid somehow, and if I don't do it, somebody else will, might as well be me making that money, although I sure didn't think I signed up to shoot at peaceful protesters in exchange for a paycheck. And the indians welding the pipes make about fifty bucks an hour, highest wage around by far. While coal miners pass a billboard on the way to work that assures them of the best local treatment for 'black lung,' yet they vote based on keeping their economy healthier than their people. Or their mountains. Don't worry about junior though, he hardly spends any time outside in the fog of our coal dust settlement, he's been chained to the screen instead, as he mines things to craft into bigger things to mine with.

Economy's sucking? Just build more infrastructure. Bail out automobile giants to get the union's vote, even if there are more cars than people on the planet. Definitely don't bail out the people though, the housing crisis might put some on the street in front of the empty foreclosures, but we need to save some fundage to bail out the banks later.

It would be nice if the word 'profit' had anything to do with saving the future. War for profit. The enslavement of life, for profit. The ecocide of development, for profit. The putrid pollutions of power consumption, digging and fracking and pumping and extracting and nucleating and even stealing solar rays and windjamming the airwaves, for profit.

I'm all about some super techno free-energy explosion, should probably be in moderation since I bet it still breeds laziness, and I bet the vibrational hum of the fridge still affects you. I think the key, is just like with the food, gotta get it locally. Electricity from the grid has to be sent out at five times strength in order to power through the journey, it's like increasing the acres of nebraska dedicated to your food by 500%, and the accompanying emissions required to get it there. Or you could just fill your yard with edibles, step outside to pick what's for dinner, and process your own food with convenient solar panels on the roof. Or a bicycle alternator setup. Or any number of personal electricity-building mechanisms that don't provide much, but if you're busy living, then it should be plenty.

We have to reduce our usage. It has grown to be obscene. We should only be using the electricity that we can personally produce. Unless maybe we had a neighborhood powered power station, that supplied the neighborhood with free electricity, but only what you could carry home in your convenient backpack battery pack. I bet we'd begin to ration the endless flow spewing out of the pipeline, like a village naturally does with fetched wood and water, and we would start to slow down the crashing of convenience as it became obvious how inconvenient it truly is. We need to live locally, and in community, not outside of our means. Again, just like with the food, it makes perfect sense when you consider the levels of devastation required to export another ecosystem's piece of planetary energy.

*******

Another toughie though. What can one do while they're plugged into the power grid? Certainly takes money to break free from the hardwired dependence on the same electric companies who brought us the hum of electric appliances, as we whistle at the bill. Though bicycles are everywhere, and I heard there's a surplus of scrap alternators soon to be floating around.

Here at Unci's, we use a few lights, the stereo, charge phones and the computer, sparingly pump the AC into the tiny late august cubicle, plus the fridge. At Sun Dance, I was in a tent, but the community hub cook shack had a light and chargers, plus coffee of course, and a fridge. And at Ben's - light, phone, vitamix, fridge.

Well, solar powered lights are easy, they charge all day and come on automatically when it gets dark, simple and cheap, just like me, or just hold a candle to that one. Personal electronics, I say ditch 'em, but any wind-up mechanism is enough to generate a few likes. So it seems that the toughest to overcome is the most necessary component of life - the refrigerator.

It takes a lot of juice to keep your juice cold, to preserve your way of life, to ensure that the food you harvest doesn't go bad before you can eat it, but how else could you rationalize living in such excess? It's so convenient though, and it saves us from wasting our styrofoam doggie bag of the literal remnants of overeating. At the farm, the fridge was fairly plain - milk, eggs and fruit - and maybe a little leftover tidbit to nibble on in the morning. But everything else we ate, got picked fresh each day. But who else in america has this opportunity? Not even many farmers.

How can you survive without an icebox, when everything you can afford comes from your grocer's freezer? How could I have cheffed it up at any other camp in the world, without the unlimited frozen food aisle? How can a consumer in america keep all of their saran-wrap and tupperware and ziplocks and endless waves of plastic packaging cold enough, so as not to leech volatile chemicals into their intoxicated food supply? How can I possibly convince anyone to give up the undeniably convenient device that my favorite room is literally built around?

So, maybe we can't live without them, in that case, we need to create their power locally, redesign them without profit, reduce their anti-vibrational output, and probably just make them smaller. Everything has to be smaller really. Less. We have lost sight of the cost of living this way, to a point of blindly building bigger than before. It takes way more electricity for the larger model, but I'll just have to work a few extra hours away from my family each week to afford it, and the money is all that I really consider about energy consumption, or my overtime in the coal mine.

We can't continue to live in a system that enables the false concept of monetary value to exploit the finite health of our planet and people. If you couldn't simply buy more electricity, if it was as limited as our endangered home, if it came in five-gallon buckets instead of direct pipelines, you might start to hold sacred every drop. Prioritized moderation and a much more mindful approach, sometimes the solar panels cut out before dinner, sometimes the last jug of water is freezing, are you sure you need to use the final drop on pizza? Yes.

*******

Pretty strong testament to the air conditioning of america, that within just a few generations, we now see it impossible to live without a recent addition to the lifeway of only a fraction of the world's elite. So, you're saying that Aborigines don't keep their Cucumbers cool? That somehow an entire planet of original cultures managed to survive without a maytag repairman. Well, in our defense, it does seem to be a bit warmer nowadays.

We had a root cellar at camp, and as far as I know, it kept our tubers pretty cold all winter long. And my hawaiian co-chef told me about their ingenious indigenous version that kept the feral Chickens from getting too spoiled. Half hut and half dugout, plus some genetic engineering from the heart of the ancestors, not the wallets of the walletmakers, wait a second, is money just a scam to sell wallets?

There's tons of techniques for preserving food that don't require this modern day machine, and some of them even make it easier to swallow, like, somehow these traditional cultures had some kind of ancient wisdom about how we were designed to interact with the world around us.

Lacto-fermentation has been used for thousands of years to preserve food without electricity, plastic, or even the destructive process of sand-mining for the mason company. It creates a probiotic product that helps along our digestion as it improves our gut flora, in exact opposition to our most beloved gluten, which is extra interesting because it also breaks down pesticides, like the brain-melting Round-Up that's genetically engineered into america's wheat. It greatly enhances the vitamin vibrations of our food, tastes great in hippie favorites like kimchi, tempeh, and yogurt, plus a fermented diet suppresses cancer growth.

No big or anything, it's just the killer disease that seems to have been on the rise ever since we stopped the traditional process of lacto-fermentation, which simply doesn't jive with plastic packaging, because the living biotics must be able to breath a bit. Nothing close to empirical evidence or anything, the empire has clouded the issue with far too many carcinogens to ever narrow our minds down to one. Though, the broad brushstrokes paint a picture of the wild abundance basically curing cancer, while the macrowaves of modification manifest it. The grocery store is killing us, good thing they have a pharmacy built-in these days.

*******

But this lacto-fermentation, isn't that just gonna take a ton of milk and fencing? Not necessarily, the "lacto" is for lactic acid, and it is totally achievable with no dairy whatsoever. Some people do use the whey, and obviously stuff like kiefer or yogurt are gonna require a Cow's contribution, but maybe we can get the symbiosis thing figured out with the bovine beauties after all.

The Mundari people of south sudan, yet another traditional culture who seem to be much more mature than our infantile insistence on instant gratification. They understand the importance of letting the Earth's cycles flow, they'd never build a dam to extract her lifeforce at the expense of another's, so they wouldn't build a fence for the same reason either. And they drink milk every day.

Oh, so they're herders, huh? Well, only in the sense that they are friends with the herd. They migrate together, they follow the herd, not in pursuit of meat like the Buffalo parade, they've got a deal worked our for the créme de la créme. They hold the herd sacred, they are family, to a point of offering daily massages to their sisters, and they also use their urine as a medicine for its highly antiseptic properties. And the Cow crap keeps getting deeper, except that they leave no trace of waste, they burn the feces to ward off insects with the smoke, and then the remaining ash acts as a further Mosquito repellent as well as another strong antiseptic. And they're all 6'6", and still evolving, except that now, our ways of war and property are trying to infiltrate any remaining indigenous cultures still hanging in there, so now they also have to protect the Cows from landmines.

But they always have fresh milk, just enough in fact, the perfect amount to drink before it spoils. Plus, they're constantly surrounded by other abundant foods, because the Cows only travel to places of proper vegetation, seems they're not quite as dumb as we thought either. If we surfed the amber waves of grain as ripeness swept across the land, we'd always be able to walk outside and pick food to eat, that's how it's been done by countless ancestors, I mean, this one time we even evolved feet to follow the food onto the land.

*******

Another trick to eating gourmet, one that doesn't require nomadicism, is simply a seasonal menu. Get it while it's hot, eat it while it's at its highest vibrational state, and next month you'll get a whole new ingredient list. Saves all that fridge space, and also saves the farmspace depletion of all those inferior foreign countries, as they grow inferior foreign replicas that require a barrel of oil per bushel, and just so that our grocery stores can provide instant gratification, to their bank accounts.

Eating locally is so vital, to both science and faith, and that also means eating from the local timeline, you can't expect to eat a six month old Banana without feeling a bit queazy. (unless maybe if it was fermented) Eat what's there, don't eat what's not, seems to be a pretty proven method. Sure, store some stuff for the tougher months, but don't work twice as hard to force a crop that's only half as strong.

And open your eyes to what is out there, winter or not, there is something edible outside right now. We have to lose our misconceptions about what is food. We don't have to eat grass and flowers all the time, I love all that other stuff too, but we should be educated enough that we don't go hungry when we realize that it is ecologically destructive to eat outside of our means.

And I've got an even better idea than following the dairy, although that's a pretty giant step towards the garden of giving that I'm headed for, but how about if we just follow the ice? We could migrate with the thaw line and enjoy a spacious walk-in cooler, plenty of room for everything, though I guess there's probably less to put away in a perpetual snow melt.

*******

And who am I to judge another's frugal freezing of accounts? It's much cheaper to buy in bulk and stowaway, plus there's less polluted packaging. Even though I've dropped out of economics, when I'm living within the cage, someone is paying the price of filling my stomach. Here, it's Unci, or it's her gracious government's assistance, but there's no thought of scarcity, she understands that my path of moneyless manifestation has brought me here for a reason. She doesn't hesitate to feed me, as I didn't back when when our roles were reversed. She feels compelled in her heart to support her family as they continue the work we began last winter. She would rather starve, than to see her loved ones getting trapped by the machine that chews them up faster than the Earth it plows under.

Though, as much of a joy as I am to be around, I'm also just a convenient distraction while she deals with the actual cages around her actual family. Everyday is filled with calls to prisons and governors, still not sure who's more racist, though my first hint is the seven years that her son is facing, for an empty Marijuana capsule that was purchased legally just two states away. The depressing part isn't the bit about his baby's due date being before his court date, it's when we uncover the web of profits that provide the jurisdiction to enslave the locals, as we copy and paste colonization over top of their freedom.

But I just got into town, plenty of all that stuff later, you got any weed? And she did, of course, but just a bit. Probably enough for a south dakota death sentence, but with two OGs like us, we'll be out by the morning. On the rez, all you can get is brick weed, the seedy dregs of a compressed Cannabis unseen in america since the nineties. No news here though, our country offloads all of their substandard pharmies onto third world nations, the same nations we spread disease into as we suck the health out of the land. But in pierre, we don't have a guy, and you can't even walk into a store for organic Strawberries, let alone a scrambled brownie.

We don't let it slow us down, smoke 'em if you got 'em, and the next day we're scraping bowls, and the next day we're melting an old cartridge, and the next day we don't even try. Not a story of desperate fiends, but a comical tale of a sweet little grandmother and her transient companion, as they pull out all the injunuity they can muster. But enough is enough, we're gonna find some buds today.

We have a few missions about town, so I dug my Grateful Dead shirt out from somewhere, but I thought that... oh... whatever, hippie. It really is the ticket to finding the one hippie in a sea of hipsters, or electropunks, or racist red states, though it generally attracts those also in search of heady nugs. Now if I just had those purple corduroys.

We grab a Squash from her neighbor's house before we go, out of a giant Squash patch that has replaced half of her front yard. For serious? Way to go team. That's what I'm talking about. That's the exact thing I've been talking about. She recognized that a growth of food to share, was a far better use of her time, energy, love, land, and even money, than some legal grass that society won't even let you grow out. So we walked by her front yard and picked a Squash, yet another dream come true, now if we could only have rounded out our meal as we rounded the cornerstones of colonization.

*******

Neither of us drive, which means that we walk a lot, but we also rode on this pretty unique bus system. She would make a pick-up appointment the day before, and they would deliver her door-to-door for only a dollar. It cost a bit more for my youth, and a far higher premium for same day service, but for her, it was a super affordable method for delivering all of her money to the prison system. The driver was friendly, he also had been feeling a disconnect happening in the world around him and yearned for a change of pace, but he had responsibilities, payments, gotta suck it up and burn some gas to stay warm this nuclear winter.

He said that the only way this bus can afford to operate, is through government subsidies, the civilized support of progressing infrastructure, and maybe it's even an ecologically economic transit solution, except that we were the only two on the otherwise empty bus. I'll assume that it'll gain speed and eventually be full of folks with unique trajectories, that would certainly take far longer to travel, but quite possibly preferable over navigating the metro. And then, we just have to power it with clean energy, and do away with the destructive practices of rubber harvesting that have decimated over a million acres of rainforest, which just don't seem to be bouncing back anytime soon. And then if we can stop the rest of the consequences of manufacturing from infecting our planet, and if our square cars didn't plow through every lifeform they come in contact with, well, the vehicle of motorization might be cool if we can figure all that stuff out.

We are all related, even that cloud of Bugs were my brothers, and how many could I possibly have killed by riding a sacred Sunka Wakan? We simply have to slow down. Slower travel, sure, at least here at the ground level, but we have to drop the entire concept of 'faster is better is bigger is wider is longer is deeper is cheaper and just a more economical gouge overall.'

Before we had machines to make clothes, we made them all by hand. Every designer pair of anything was a one-of-a-kind handcrafted piece of art. With personal love. Certainly varying qualities, though I'd imagine there were some pretty talented folks back then, and an inescapable attention to detail as you fidget with a pair of socks for days. They weren't made to be the fastest, or the cheapest, they were made to be the best they could be, made with the pride of true craftsmanship, with love, and even more so if you knew that you were giving them away. Things were built to last, because it just wouldn't make sense to design them to be disposable, I can only make so many pairs of art with my heartbeat, so you better hang on to these for a while. And that was no problem really, it's not like you had room for a whole drawerful to lose in some electric dryer, plus, the Sun does that for free anyway.

But on the horizon, was the looming decline of decent apparel, the substandard fruit of mechanization that quite blatantly prioritized quantity over quality. The machines would never recreate grandma's fingertips, so they didn't even try. It just has to function, and not forever, we kinda need them to keep buying socks, otherwise we'll never be able to sell as many as the machine can spit out. You outta see this baby go.

It's not just the threads either, it's across the board. Our consumer class is fundamentally based on reducing costs and increasing sales, the profits of quantity over quality, a one-time-used business model that enables the disposable income of economy over ecology. Like food, just think about the corners they must cut off of their ingredient lists, in order to continuously meet their shareholders growing expectations.

How can it be healthy to consume a diet balanced on your budget? Or even the 'healthy' snacks with primo ingredients, I bet they would have loved to put even more good stuff in there, but there's only so much that a whole foods yuppy is gonna pay for granola. It's simply not efficient to plant food by hand with love, it's much more marginal to use a machine of disconnection.

An economic system that rewards manufacturers for cheaping out, only lessens the quality of life for everyone, as it stretches the pockets of the suits - see, that just wouldn't have happened with a hand-stitched humanity.

*******

Our pockets were still pretty empty, though we did make it to dakotamart for a couple of organics, some egg roll wrappers, and the stuff for frybread. I'd only made it a few times since camp, I did have a really good top secret recipe though, even if the vague amounts kept me guessing as much as you. I had it written down, the first step to desecrating the sacred magic of the frybread, but it was in the notebooks that I was pretty much done with anyway, so I should probably work on memorizing this orally sensating tradition before I move on. We stepped outside to wait on our bus appointment, just chillin out front, obviously up to no good, and all of a sudden Carolyn tells me to hang on a second as she takes off on me. What the...

Ah, I see what this is, she had seen a native couple leaving the store, and my guess is that she's working a bit of indian magic. From their point of view, this little old grandma comes chasing after them, "Hey, hey you!" So they got scared, and they removed from their pants... the steaks that they had just stolen from the store. Ah hah hah, they thought they were getting busted by security, Unci said, "Nah, we're just looking for some buds."

"Oh, yeah yeah yeah, we got you, just hop in the van." Now see, if I'd have planned my whole trip out, I probably would have never gotten in the van with two cattle rustling indians, and who knows where I'd be right now? And they knew that we held no judgement about the hijack, there's an unspoken bond between natives in the city, not a race thing as much as a similar vibration of friendliness, it's just a shame that the rest of the system can't feel it. And after a quick meet and greet with me, it's obvious that I have an even stronger insistence on not paying for food.

How could anybody judge someone for stealing food? Like stealing air, or water, or land, these are not things to be owned, they are given to us all by the Earth. And how many that react with the advice of getting a job if you're hungry, were also sympathetic to Aladdin's similar bread theft, as he became the hero of the story and toppled the evil regime's empirical takeover?

Our wasteful culture throws out food at every step, from farm to table to fridge, yet we have people risking incarceration just for a bite of protein. You can dumpster dive for day-old items at some stores, others of course, just can't allow any free food to enter the free market, and yet some even embrace the movement and place special receptacles out back for the wandering souls. Probably not many organics, although they do tend to be less perfectly appealing, and some may even have a few complimentary bugs of bonus protein \- because they weren't sprayed with chemicals - and that alone is sometimes enough to scare up a discard.

No, we don't think they're trash, in fact, "You guys can come cook 'em at our place if you want, we even have a Squash in the oven." And they were in, because they had been living in their van for the past month, along with a pretty sweet eight person tent, but it's tough to find a spot to camp without a fee, believe me. They had to leave their last rented room, but staying in the van was way cheaper than the unaffordable housing market, things were looking up though, why, he might even be able to get some work on an oil rig. Unci and I looked at each other across the back seat, "Looks like we got some work to do."

They asked if they could set up the tent out back, of course, that was a given, but I ended up giving them my room too, it's kinda the way we operate. We squashed the steaks, rolled some doobs, played some cards and cracked up all night. Blew their minds with my white man's frybread, and he asked, "so... is that your grandma?" Uhhh... yeah... as we smile and silently contemplate the dynamic of our odd coupling.

*******

It had already been a great few days, getting close to each other in this way, being there for her, and her for me, and we'd even been planning a vacation together. The Unity Concert for the Black Hills was this upcoming weekend. A music, healing, education and prayer event, dedicated to the return of the Black Hills to the Lakota people. The Black Hills are their most sacred space, they didn't even allow themselves to live in the abundance, only to visit and pray, and they felt a powerful vibrational energy through the mountains made of their ancestors.

Then we snatched it up, well, Custer tried to, then somebody else came behind him and succeeded. Now it's a national forest of departmental agriculture. The government admits they stole it, but only offered a minimal reparation of made up money. We don't want that stuff, why can't they just give us back the sacred site? I have a few theories about that one, but for now, I'll assume that it's so we can throw a sweet concert.

It's a couple of hours away though, no worries, we're water protectors, we can do anything, plus we posted a ride request on the facebook. And when we had no takers, we made the plan to hitchhike to the show, tomorrow, epic, hitchhiking with Unci, adventure for sure. And then duh, that's a no-brainer, we're looking for a ride to a free event with free music, free food, and free camping, and you guys need all of that stuff, plus it's a way to plug you into the movement. Why don't you two go to the show with us? And they were in. Unci exclaims her kudos for my forethought, and I laugh about how we manifested herb and a ride from the same encounter, new record for easiest hitchhike ever.

*******

We pack up and hit the road in the a.m. And after a night of filling them in on the movement, we have them gung-ho to head to camp, even talk of heading to Line 3 next. They're the ideal recruits, already living a life of minimal means, comfortable roughing it, and camp is going to be shockingly abundant to someone not caught up in the spoils of excess. It may be tougher to get homeowners to drop their mortgage and run off to a campout, but the frontline of gentrification will be eager to sign up.

Those struggling to sleep and eat and feel purpose in life, and we offer all that and more, plus we're sticking it to the man. And as desperation builds among the commoners to survive, the allure of our way of life will seem increasingly obvious, it really does make more sense than the idiocracy of modern america. Just like with the rent strike, there are already people involuntarily living this way, some are even normal decent white folks in the san francisco housing shortage, and we're here to give them a safe space to live a healthier life, without the isolating eyes of judgement raining down on them.

We show up and it's immediately magical, tents and tipis and indians and hippies, ahhh, I'm home again. Music will be starting up soon, but we have time for a quick day trip to a nearby sacred space, Bear Butte. This is the hill that Crazy Horse went up on for hembleciya, when he received the vision of Custer's defeat, and the future rise of the water protectors. The entire path up to the bottom of the butte is covered with prayer ties, colorful dreams clinging to the trees all around us, black, red, yellow, white, blue, and green, Tobacco filled cloths flapping in the winds of the four directions. It was absolutely breathtaking. So I took a breath and prayed. Quite remarkable, but no time for further remarks, we gotta get this road on the show, and of course we pull back in as the first band takes the stage.

I went to a colonized concert when I was last rolling through asheville, my very favorite local band happened to be playing on the exact night I stopped in, and then a friend payed their precious pennies for an extra ticket, so of course I'd love to go. Except that I didn't. It was ok, but this time last year I'd have been going nuts with the rest of the front row. And maybe that was part of it, these people were me less than a year ago, but now I just saw them as unconscious partiers who were squandering this mass amount of collective energy and stuffing it all in a bottle.

But here, this place had the fundamental vibrations of the music that I love, and a conscious energy of healing our planet, and no alcohol, never saw an official announcement, just never saw anyone who wanted to dilute their experience. Many of the band members had been at Standing Rock, and most had at least one song dedicated to the water protectors, though all the tunes seemed to resonate with my internal dialog of Earthly harmony.

There were three tipis for workshops each morning, a sweat lodge down the hill, and a complete lack of the capitalism experienced at any other festival I've ever known. Some people did have a few handicrafts for sale or trade, or gift, but that was it. No vendors lined up on shakedown street, and no food trucks, just the free kitchen on the other side of the stage. And the next thing I know, our chauffeurs are volunteering in the cook shack as they hand me a piece of frybread, "Don't worry, it's not as good as yours."

Yes. Not about the bread, well, yeah, but it's so cool to bring our new family to the place that feels like home, to show them another way, and for them to rise to the occasion. They weren't lazy, they just weren't willing to live an unfulfilling life in pursuit of money. Bravo. And following their heart vibration brought them here, a place that all of a sudden made the world make a little more sense, yeah, I remember what that felt like too, welcome to the family.

*******

And family was coming out of the woodwork, though that adage has a bit different context now that I consider worked wood to be the product of my fallen brothers' bodies. But I do have a deep love for woodcrafting, carving and cutting and especially turning out a beautiful swirling burl bowl on a hypnotizing lathe. Finished wood furniture is stunning, the details of the grain and rich tones of color, artwork without a doubt. But a giant Oak, still cycling its life as a tile in the forest mosaic, is also stunning. And yeah, sure, there's lots of them out there, but there's also a lot of chairs - just how much sitting are you planning on doing?

And there's hardly any big trees still standing, america's celebration of giant lumberjacks assured that one, but at least some left the saplings to rebuild. A survival-of-the-fittest kinda deal, except that we clearcut a community and left the traumatized infants to remember how to put it all back together, but at least we sent them to boarding school. We murdered all of their elders, those who held the family together and held the most Earthly wisdom of living in a good way, which only made it that much easier for us to push our colonizing tradition over theirs. If you feel the connection I do, then you're already with me, and if you can't quite open up to the personification of indians, don't worry, we can stick to the trees for a bit.

Did you know that if you cut an old grandmother tree out of the forest, that the other trees intertwined with her family roots will each sacrifice some of their own solar energy, in order to keep her stump alive? They will literally put their most cherished members of society on life support, pumping in vital nutrients that her system can no longer produce on its own, and only to cling onto a shell of the being who used to be such a commanding presence for an entire ecosystem. Wouldn't you do the same for your grandmother?

You're gonna have a hard time convincing me that the trees aren't alive. Just cause they don't speak old english, I'd never assume that my lack of understanding a completely foreign kingdom of life, at all correlated to an absence of universal vibration. They're just way bigger and older than us, longer lifetimes of longer wavelengths, at least until we cut them short to admire the beauty of their lifeless corpses. To eat off of the lifelines that each represent a year of experience, a circle of cycles that we just completely erased from herstory.

How disgusted would you be if some alien species was handcrafting human cross-section coffee tables? "Ooh, just look at the intricate veins on this one honey." But now I'm just being ridiculous, aliens are about as real as talking trees, everybody knows that the only truth in a disney film is that Pocahontas wasn't kidnapped and raped.

And science can't pretend anymore either, it seems there's more to it than just an elementary understanding of our supposedly symbiotic oxygen cycle, although you'd think that alone would be enough to slow the deflation of our planet's lungs. When you realize that the Earth is a being on a larger plane of existence, it's much easier to understand her flow, to feel her breathe, to see her plant cells exhale while her animal cells draw in the air circulating throughout her system. The water running through her veins as it delivers the essence of life to all of her organs. An infinitely complex organism only attainable through billions of years of evolution, or magic vocal vibrations from the heavens, either way, it seems a bit foolish to start hacking off limbs and rearranging her body parts. And somehow we're the ones scared of monsters.

"If trees emitted wifi, we'd be planting them everywhere - too bad they only create the air we breathe."

Except that now, of course, they have cell towers shaped like trees, a cleaner way to disguise the obtrusions to our view, which seems to be more important than the actual landscape, and luckily the robot bees don't seem to mind the artificial buzz that threw off their biologic counterparts. I don't think disguising technology as nature, is quite what I meant by the two coexisting in harmony, or just invent a chainsaw that looks like a beaverbot and you should be clear to cut.

*******

Ok, ok, I'm with you. If I look at an ecosystem as the intricate individual that it is, I can't deny that removing the most fundamental elements of its foundation, is going to severely sever the backbone of its being. I can still selectively harvest timber in a good way though, right? I mean, that's even what the forestry service does, and they're the experts. We have to thin the herd so that the forest will thrive, isn't that our duty as stewards of the land? Certainly didn't need thinning when we first got here, the massive trees seemed to be thriving just fine, but once we erroneously erased anything living from our new home, don't we have a duty to meddle in the regeneration of our nation? Plus, how else will we ever get trees big enough to harvest again?

There is no such thing as sustainable logging, it is only further devastation to a fledgeling eco-community, one who is barely starting to stand back up after we decimated an entire lifeway. It's akin to murdering indians so that the rest are forced to grow stronger - in their meth addictions. But the forest needs our help, otherwise they'll starve each other out, it's as if there's no rhyming reason to guide the young saplings who run around with their heads cut off. Plus the loggers actually prevent forest fires, by reducing the amount of forest, as they protect our private property from the completely natural process of a planet rebuilding herself.

We understand that we messed up a billion year blueprint, so it only makes sense to intervene during the earliest generations of the next billion year rebuilding. Don't worry Mr Maple, we'll kill the little ones who crowd around your feet for you. Nevermind that you vibed with them, that you didn't mind sharing the abundance of life with the next generation, especially considering their destiny of taking over for you once your cycle is complete. Now you'll be so strong in solitude as you soak up every drop, so that we can bleed it back out onto our pancakes.

Plants crowd each other out, it's a vital component of the evolution of a functional forest. Some have early on success, which sets the stage for the next generation, and as they grow stronger than their ancestors, the continuous renewal of life leads to the extreme diversity feared by the homogenous sapiens. "Weeding" the forest doesn't make the garden stronger, it makes the grip of greed even tighter around the tree farm prisoners in solitary confinement. We gotta let the forest run. We can use positive reinforcement to spread the seeds of life, but we have no right to impose our self-appointed free will onto the freedom of another.

Trees are alive, like, for real alive, they are living beings of the Sun and Earth and God, they are not our property to use at will, they are our oldest relatives. They scientifically exhibit evidence of vibrational sensing capabilities, brainwaves, they are quite literally telepathic, look it up. And how would they feel about you thoughtlessly chopping down a Cherry Tree, the most remembered offense of our first genocidal president?

They're gonna be sad, as am I, and once it clicks in your heart that all of life is your literal family, it's going to make you sick to realize the grotesque ways in which we've made it socially acceptable to exploit a relative's well-being. Don't beat yourself up though, you're just a product of conditioning, and once the veil has lifted, it will once again be instinctual to treat the living world with the respect she deserves. Once you understand the connection we share with the tree of life, there's absolutely no way you could feel good about cutting it down to size. Unless maybe you were eating it.

*******

Or what about eating with it? Certainly a wooden spoon is preferred over plastic. True, but the deadfall of the modern microforest isn't as substantial as we've grown accustomed to consuming, so maybe we should think about moderation as we forget about a disposable future.   
There are currently over a billion and a half metal spoons in america, and every single day we throw away another forty million that will each last a million years or so, shouldn't that be enough for our measly population of 325,000,000? Only in a world of profit, would a door-to-door spoonman find any success. You need at least a dozen per house, and different sizes for tea and table, hundreds at each restaurant, and plastic packages to toss in the ocean after we only use the salt packet. A billion spoons when all you needed was a knife. Coulda just carved one, a reasonable quantity of spread out utensile strength, and no litter as it goes back to the Earth.

If we each carried a spoon in our pocket, how many 'natural resources' could we let nature keep? If we're conscious about our consumption methods, we'll cherish the cycle of life and hold sacred every gift of the forest. We'll have enough fallen wood to personally craft to our heart's content, which will be moderately lessened as we see the implications of the mass-produced commodification of dead bodies. You're right, there is absolutely not enough naturally falling timber to continue our current way of life. Point taken.

*******

And currently, the family was still coming out of the woodwork, albeit a handcrafted artisan ground score that really didn't seem like much work at all. Saw a few familiar faces from Camp White Clay, tons of water protectors that I kinda recognized, a pal from Sun Dance who I'd first heard of this event from, and the next thing I know, Harvey and the crew are taking the stage with the drum. Indian music from Rosebud, doesn't get much more like home than this, at least until I hear an announcement over the drum mic, "Welcome Erenbrooks."

What? Where? Must be some other bus hippies, and actually, there were other bus hippies, one work of art carried thirteen packed-in dreadys, but then I saw a little Erenbrook popping up above the shoulders of the crowd.

Hugs erupt as if it's been more than a week since I walked off into the sunset, my you kids sure have grown up fast. Makes it easier to step away, now that I know our paths are interwoven like the roots of Fibonacci's forest. We gain strength from each other and stand as a family, united as one as we combat the erosion of our way of life, and I couldn't imagine doing it without the unconditional love of our Unci.

Tunkasila, omakiya yo,

onsimala yo, anpetu kin le makakijelo.

Wani wachin ye, wicozani wokiya,

heya hoyewayelo.

Pilamaya peta wakan, pilamaya Wanbli Oyate.

Tunkasila, wopila tanka,

aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

Grandfather, help me,

have pity on me, today I walk the Earth.

I want to live, with health and help,

as I send you my prayers.

Thank you sacred fire, thank you Eagle Nation.

Grandfather, I am so very grateful for this existence,

amen, to all my relations.

*******

I'm getting there, piecing it together bit by bit, learning the songs is more help than anything. And opening my heart to prayer, to healing, to the purification of the humbling lodge, my church, and there's a service tonight, though this will be the first outside of my Rosebud community. At camp, both lodges were run by Rosebud crew, and at Benjamin's where I picked up a handful of songs, they were all sung the way his Sun Dance chief, Harvey, was given them. Some of these songs are part of the original teachings handed down from the ancestors, others are given to medicine men by Wakan Tanka, or perhaps to a brother on hembleciya, and we all have a death song waiting to be sung as we move along the vibrational path to the spirit world.

Praying is about opening your heart in a humble way, in whatever language you choose, the same probably goes for singing from the heart, but there's something different about some of these indian songs. It's like they unlock some kind of coded thing or something. When sung in a group around the drum, each vocal cord vibration multiplying with the next creates a unified energy field, you can feel it. Even without the translation, it puts you in a place of connection, and the rhythmic vocables of songs with no words seem just as powerful, especially in a packed lodge.

So, could these ways to pray really be a part of some 'original teachings?' Some universal mechanism for tapping into the vibrational make-up of Wakan Tanka? Ridiculous probably, and teachings from who? But it is curious that there are sweat lodges all over the world, and here they span from canada to argentina, completely covering all of our Turtle Island, which is coincidentally the same reptile planet described in hindu and chinese mythology. So someone originally taught all these separated tribes, or they each independently evolved the practice, or maybe they learned it before they were separated, from the original tribe.

*******

Languages and traditions shift with the times and migrations, based on whatever resonates with the land, but what if there are some specific protocols for communicating with creation? Things possibly lost in the patriarchal square version of an originally legit way to worship, especially when they retuned the organ to 440. A handed-down oral tradition of instructions, in a language from the same Earth that birthed the stones we pray with, synchronized to the rounded cycles of the universe, perhaps to remind us of some ancient wisdom that our ancestors knew we would forget. Could the circular lodge somehow unlock the same secrets that the Mayan calendar did?

The lodge is definitely round, like the medicine wheel. Four directions or four doors or four rounds of spiraling energy, collectively projected at the steaming stones, the grandfathers, whose wavelength of sentience is far longer than our own. Their uplifting energy charged in the peta wakan, the sacred fire, who we only walk around in a sunwise direction, with the natural flow of energy emanating from the Earth in this hemisphere. The literal vibration that spirals between Unci Maka and Grandfather Sky, the same vibration that moves through us as it refracts the light of our being.

We pray in a sunwise rotation in the inipi, always crawling around the stones upon exit, then we smoke the chanupa, a single puff of the ceremonial pipe, exhaling our prayers skyward as Tobacco grounds us to the planet, and we always pass to the left. The Wanbli is flying above to relay the message, and somehow even the Bird Nation feels the groove as they build their nests in a sunwise spiral of connection.

You can watch water ride the wave too, as we flush seven billion gallons a day. Swirling sunwise into the depths of the planet, whose physiological makeup is primarily water, the exact ratio as our own material being, quite a cosmic coincidence of planetary parallel. And each cell in your body also reflecting the equation, it seems that the planes of existence above and below us are all fractal copies of the same creation. And all made of water. The liquid crystal clear conduit that even scientists have to admit is the fundamental element of life itself, mni freakin wiconi. It fills each and every cell of each and every living organism, every being of life, every being of light, the Sun's vibrations flow through the planet that we are a part of, and the photons pour through our bodies of water as they empower us to taste the rainbow.

Water is clear, should be at least (cough, dapl), and you are almost completely made of water. You should be more invisible than an indigenous american teenager feels in modern society. Your existence is merely a prismic experience in this dimension of sensation. You are the white light of the universe, the explosive energy that makes the whole thing go 'round, and as this lightwave travels through the water filter of your streaming consciousness, through the ultimate electrical conductor of life, it is clouded by the minority of other particles in each cell, the elements of refraction that create the holographic illusion that you are anything other than the universe incarnate.

The light is reflected by the flecks of vibration floating around your watershed, and your skin tone is not the color you are, it's the color you aren't. The reflection you see in the mirror is the color (or light frequency) not absorbed by your being, instead turned away (like dark skin at the deli counter) as it is noticed by our refractory furnished sensory perception devices. So the whiter your are, the less universal light is absorbed into your bloodline, and coincidentally the less likely you are to live in a culture intimately connected to our vibrating planet.

This white light of wisdom is propelled through your synapsing brain, it is an organ of complex electrical routing, whose circuitry provides the clouding components of self-awareness. See, you really are a natural born resistor. And that's your ego talking, the purely physical particles that try to convince your material mind that somehow you're doing this all on your own, that you're not a piece of the universal slideshow as it cycles sunwise through the projected path of white light.

And ego's not necessarily a bad thing, it's actually a pretty essential element of the human experience. It is what allows this cosmic energy of creation to observe such a complex evolution of humanity, from the inside, as if it didn't already know the particulars of our potential pathways. I'm talking about God, or the universe, or maybe Chuck Norris - or what I call Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery \- and what a mystery it is. Every understanding I come to, only opens up a new realm of exploration, an infinite catacomb of cosmology. And that's what it's all about, we are here to be us, to each journey along our own path of discovery, to gain insights into an understanding of the universe as we contribute our findings to the collective unconsciousness of humankind, which is currently evolving back into the white light of God, unless that's just your ego talking.

The entire universe is in your head, all of everything, our ego keeps us at ten percent capacity, but as we cosmically collect our vibrational harmony, we grow closer and closer to the God that we've been the whole time. The entire big shebang was the catalyst for this return to unity, the God particle that exploded into the heavens, a vibrational cloud that evolved into universal proportions, exactly like your inflated ego. It keeps us as unique as each galaxy, every path of billions is a completely new experience. This all inclusive relationship with the stars, coupled with our understanding of the gravitational influences of celestial bodies, on what amounts to be tiny flecks of minerals floating in purely influential water, well, it all makes the universe start to come together a bit.

We are God, as we explore the universe that is inside our head. We each perceive the dance with slightly different detail, which constructs the big picture powwow, and the closer we get to completeness, the less our ego will be able to convince us of our separation from that state. As our ego dissolves, we evolve into beings of pure unfiltered light. Once the mechanism for duality is unable to convince you that you are in charge, you will feel the ultimate power of God flow through you.

And as you are humbled in a hot lodge, your ego melts away as you beg for survival, for humility, and without the weight of your burning body to hold you back, you are able to transcend the barriers that divide heaven and Earth. Of course, this is all some heathenistic ritual of barbaricism, from a people so behind that they don't even have a word for 'religion.' They couldn't even see the need to separate spirituality from reality, but even our definition of the word seems to outline this same cyclical return to Eden.

'Religion' - 'a bringing back together,' though it's a little curious how many wars are fought in the name of reuniting man with God. And a little short-sighted perhaps, of those who credit their jealous God with only a single path of meeting up with him. An infinite universal being who dwells in each of us, across the made-up borders of our colonized maps and calendars, unarguably existing in even the least civilized of us, as missionaries attempt to force it out of the nonbelievers. A God who must standby and witness the beauty of spectacle put forth in the name of praising the Sun and Moon and stars and the Earth herself, an entire globe of tradition filled with the vibrant vibrations of color and art and music and love, and all in the name of living in harmony with the rest of his cosmic creations. Yet the chains of his colonized congregation keep him from hearing these prayers of peace emitted from around the planet, he must instead follow the command of the ten percent, as they fuel the gears of world war.

My God, Wakan Tanka, is far more capable of reconnecting to the human genome. He sees the incredible beauty of a world full of diversity, of a species with so many ways to honor his gift of life, and he connects to all of them on an energetic level as they come to him without ego. As they pray from the heart. If the whole purpose of anything is for God to experience everything, it seems kinda rude to keep him locked away to yourself. A little egotistical, in fact. I still have to work on my humility every single day, it's tough to realize that you are God and not let it go to your head, but my personal relationship with the Great Spirit makes it inconceivable to put him in a cage for sunday visitation.

I know for a fact that prayers work in my way, as I've seen them work in others, and I do have a healthy enough ego to credit myself with the brainpower percentage to acknowledge that I don't actually know everything in the universe. Yet. So for now, I'll just pray for everyone, and let God sort them out later.

*******

I guess it's not quite fair to put all that work onto the universe, at least not if we're not willing to put a little back into it. And there's a lot of work to be done. Our home is falling apart because we neglected to care for it, we treated it like a disposable diaper and assumed that we could just buy another when the bank took it away. I'm no economist, but I don't think there's enough money on Earth to replace her. And she wasn't even ours to lose, turns out we borrowed her from our children, so I feel a pretty strong responsibility to care for her before it's too late. It's a lot, I know, so much damage has been done already, but as long as I do whatever I can in whatever part of Unci Maka I find myself, I'm generally surprised with what one person can do to counteract the negligence of those who think their footprint is too small to affect the world around them.

Plus, I'm not alone. And I'm not even talking about some mythical band of water protectors out to save the world, there are real life people around the globe that understand the importance of healing our precious planet. And by some miracle of random coincidence, they just so happened to attend the same sacred Black Hills Unity concert that my path of prayer had invited me to. Funny how that seems to works out. Every time.

I'm up early the next day, somewhat, and I pick up a few empty water bottles on my way to the workshop tipis. Even at an event of consciousness, litter still escapes us. That really does suck, it was just a few stray pieces, but how can we expect anyone else to do it better than we can? A strong water protecting grandma reminded me to always collapse every bottle fully, I normally do, at least most of the way, but sometimes it's too easy to just pick up trash and toss it in the can. But if a bag of bottles is uncompressed, then it's gonna take up way more space at the landfill, or on the recycling truck, which means more trips carrying bags of air, so more gas burned to do your civic duty of recycling. If you can simply take the time to squish them down into pucks, it creates a much more efficient system of justifying your petroleum-based plastic consumption.

An even better solution, is to not pretend that recycling is some modern marvel that negates whatever toxic sludge went into the Earth's water to bottle yours. And the recycling process itself, requires tons of power and fossil fuels to burn off poisoned impurities into our oh-so-pure atmosphere. Plus, there's not even a market for recycled raw materials, as there are already stockyards filled with the refused refuse. How about instead of separating plastic and aluminum, we separate ourselves from the work of fiction that recycling will save the planet, it only provides a false sense of sustainability as it perpetuates the fallacy that we can consume responsibly. How is a giant bag of beer cans gonna do anything to save the world?

*******

Even with that sidetrack to the recycling bin, I still showed up at the tipis just in time, indian time, duh. And today's lesson: healing sacred sites. A dude from somewhere far away, and by dude I mean a doctor in something or other, had been traveling to sacred sites around the globe. Specifically, the most traumatized locations, often including sites of massacre, as the people most connected to the energy of the land were unwilling to let it be decimated with their dying breath. Turns out that mt rushmore isn't a natural rock formation, or that it's the first sacred space of an indigenous peoples to be desecrated, exploited, and deactivated.

The Earth is alive. She is a being of energy. Of light. We all are, remember? She can feel pain, we're just too zoomed in to notice, it's like how the cells of our body make up our being, but they are unaware of what we feel. The cells of my liver don't know why they keep getting poisoned and knocked down, they're left in the dark as they rebuild the best they can, even though the worsening condition of their host is not looking good. Unless the liver failure is what started the whole cardiac event in the first place.

So now imagine what it must feel like for Unci Maka, when a few hundred, or thousand, or hundred million of her healthy liver cells die a tragic death - she would hurt. There would be a vibrational wound on her surface, and deeper, we wouldn't feel it unless we were connected to her control center, but it would heavily hinder our ability to function in a good way. And for a trauma like this to happen at a place of such strong spiritual connection, an energy center of our planet, a chakra, well that's actually the type of thing they invented the word 'traumatic' for. Especially when an absurd amount of these damaged places exist around the globe.

What's so sacred about some hills anyway? What's the big deal about eminent domaining these places of prayer for the good of the common, I mean, the colonized man? Whose ancestors died and made these sites so special? Well, our local sacred site of the evening happens to fall on the intersection of two ley lines of seismic energy, vibrations that formed the hills, shaped the Earth, created creation. They resemble a heart from the Wanbli's point of view, and there's a mystic correlation of Fibonacci spiral found in the geographic location of the many points of interest, including our favorite Bear Butte, which seems to coincidentally be a mathematical doorway to spiritual consciousness. The 'Red Road' of Phi can be found in the stars, as it is reflected in the Earthly migration route that the Lakota followed in a sunwise circular fashion around these sacred hills. The spiritual geometry of this place keeps going and going, but I'm ready to get to the real science of it being a literal battery.

It was discovered a while back, to contain a mountainous circuitry of gold deposits. Some dude found that out, right between agreeing to let the indians have their silly ceremonies, and deciding that we were actually gonna take their prayer away after all, don't worry though, the natives made custard outta that fella. It's super scientific that gold is an all powerful conductor, ancient tradition backs it up as a link to the spirit world with golden Buddhas and other sacrilegious idols, and even christianity must admit that the vatican holds the world's largest cache of gold for some reason or another. The gold's just a piece of the componentry though, it's accompanied by the continent's largest stores of uranium, silver, copper, lead, lithium, bentonite, limestone, sandstone and granite, which just so happen to be capable of creating enough power to charge up a mortal coil, as it sparks the initiation of life.

Sounds like plenty of reason to level the praying fields of the sacred set location of the Lakota creation story. There's a deep cave network, the largest in north america, and it happens to be perfectly placed in the middle of the map. We've never even been to the bottom, just like the ocean, and certainly seems vast enough to corroborate the myth of emerging from the depths of Unci Maka. Birthed of the planet and deployed across her surface, and this happened in four directions, red, black, yellow, and white, a circular dispersal of the original peoples. Also a sweet spot to survive a 10,000 year ice age and reemerge as if it were the dawn of time, the threshold of the next age of man, a planet heals as a people reconnects in her heart. Kinda explains why the government is actively trying to destroy it.

*******

A panel of strong Lakota warrior women spoke in the afternoon, each heading up a different angle of the movement to save our mother. I end up seeing most of them again throughout my travels, and always at the forefront of the frontline. I'd bet on a fearless Lakota woman in just about any match-up, though I'm a little short on cash right now.

One woman spoke of her battle at Wind Cave, the current target for vibrational trauma of a sacred site. And just to be clear, I don't mean some dark crystal powered doomsday device, nope, they are carelessly causing mini-earthquakes as they blast reverberations into the chasm.

'Seismic testing,' it's like trying out a new chemical on a small spot of your carpet, hoping that it's safe to blast and dig and demolish the entire house, but even just the small trial run is enough to completely ruin the rug. You mean, we're really shooting our earthquake cannon into a massive unknown cave network at the geographical center of our continent? Geezus.

And why do they care enough about earthquake threats that they'd rather go ahead and vaccinate themselves with a manmade one? Oh, I see, they want to mine the massive energy deposits that we continue to find in this sacred land of connective power. Sorry guys, that's part of a national forest, it's kinda off limits for private corporations to export wealth at the detriment of the nation... Just kidding, I really had you going there, of course you can drill buddy, who's gonna stop us, some cartoon indians and their drums and singing and stuff?

How many frackin mine sites are on sacred indigenous land? Thousands. Just in america. And how many pipelines plowed through indian burial grounds, besides the one I tried to stop? Most. On the surface, the empire is breaking ground to extract her energy in new ways, just so happens to coincide with the ancient ways of energy collection as well. But once you start adding stuff up, it simply seems like yet another angle of attack in the war against our planet. Against us. The battle of good vs evil. Or light vs dark. The latters of which might merely be the temporary absence of the formers. Slowly evolving out of a clouded darkness, reaching a vibrational harmony that enlightens and uplifts, and eventually cycling through the channelers until unity is restored.

*******

But not everyone seems to want ultimate togetherness. The powers that be, be powered by our divided population, and we're kept at ends with each other so we that don't try to end the whole thing. 'Us' and 'them' across the board, a race of disconnection, and the winners every time are those who stand to profit from our disputes. Or from our complacent displacement of the energy fields that should be vibrating our evolution, but they've got us so addicted to convenience that we cheer on every frequency downshift of our consciousness. I may be a government conspiracy nut, but that just refers to me conspiring against the government, there's just too many layers of intentional disconnect to believe that the man's not involved with the silencing of our mother.

Let's get the boring stuff out of the way first, like all the sacred sites of geologic energy we keep blabbing about, magic vortexes or some hippie stuff like that, obviously not something any colonized mind would buy into. (We'd just take it.) Also the extraction of millions of randomly generated mineral deposits that couldn't possibly affect an electromagnetic field around the Earth if removed, well known to be a vital component of a life sustaining planet, but that proves no ill will, just a business model of profit over people, quite standard issue in today's global market. Wait, actually I think corporations count as people too now, so then... can they be president? Oh yeah, nevermind.

I'm obviously gonna toss in agriculture - because I believe it is one of the most fundamental sources of our initial energy disconnection - but I can't get lost in a wormhole about the domestication of dumbed-down inbreeds, the homogenized waveforms of nutrient deficiency, the made-up miracles of monsanto, the sugar, the Corn, the Corn syrup, the Corn flakes, and the cornfed Cows who replaced a highly harmonious diet of evolutionary standards. I can't quite pinpoint if ag is the cause or effect of the decline called civilization, but not only is it most assuredly the conqueror of lands in a war against our mother, it is also its own biological weapon.

How could you possibly vibrate to your fullest, with a real connection to the planet who birthed you, if every farm fed calorie you've ever consumed was long removed from the empowering phibration of evolution? This source energy provides the mechanism for perfection. Wild Buffalo have more vibrating nutrients than farmed Bison, who have more than grassfed Cows, who have more than cornfed cattle, who have more than mcdonalds. And the same goes for the Tomatoes. Domestication equals the dumbing down of our diet, and the disconnection of our society. Please eat real food.

And water. Water is obviously important. It is our entire vibrating body and world and life and yadda yadda, but it's all good, my city even puts fluoride in it for me. Who knows if the indecent way our water has been treated is intentional, but if it's not, then we might be in even worse trouble. On the rez, it's blatant, there's uranium dumping into the river, pipelines leaking into the river, ranch run-off running off into the river, but the water most everywhere is nothing like the crystal clear glass of connection tapped from the spring at Ben's place. But if you go and buy spring water, then you only perpetuate the life cycle of bisphenol plastic as you deplete the water cycle of spring, catch twenty-two, though they do have refillable five-gallons, just don't let them freeze. Or, just camp by a spring, it's what all the cool kids are doing.

Ok, I think I got all that old news stuff out of the way. Maybe just a quick shout-out to pharmaceuticals, quite proud about a reduction in emotional sensitivity, a numbing of our sixth sense of vibration capture, and a disconnection from our internal guiding light. Drugs are bad, mkay. And alcohol, obviously, but I'll let you finish that beer before I get too heated about that one, last call.

So that was all just a bunch of the same cornerstones of civilization that I've been building a case with ever since the beginning, but there are actually some pretty icky numbing agents that they're specifically using to make us flatline, yet have us begging for more. Oh preposterous, nobody's gonna be so strung out that they will willingly overdose on forgetting, unless there's an app for that.

No time to hang up the phone though, hardly even enough time to cook the frozen food that they've got us thoroughly addicted to, so just "nuke" it. Microwaving your food is super bad, it flatlines the vibrations of the water that composes every morsel, and every morsel of you. Don't believe me? Just try to grow a plant with microwaved water, or youtube it, or try to grow a person. You could also gather some credible testimony, like Albert Einstein, who warned that microwave radiation is incapable of escaping our ionosphere, and has been continuously building up with every beeping bite.

Of course, microwave ovens aren't the only microwaves frying your brain, ever wonder why they can interfere with your wifi? It's because they're the same thing. Microwaves make our food boil from the inside, wifi leads to half-baked ideas, and you sync your cell phone directly up to your thought process.

All this technology talk may have made you forget that our alpha brainwaves are coincidentally aligned with the resonant frequency of the Earth, 7.83hz, and it turns out that it's kind of important for us to stay tuned-in. The science people did all sorts of studies, including working with some sick astronauts, and it turns out that we can't function without a steady stream of 7.83hz. Also seems to be really tough to detect in concrete cities, where there seems to be a coincidental rise in the symptoms of becoming disconnected from Schumann, such as: brain fog, depression, sleep loss, pain, fatigue and stress. Sorry, does that hit a little too close to your home away from home?

All this data, yet cellular telephony is obviously the planetary communication method of the future. And even before smartphones, we were in a race to overcome the Earth herself. Some of the earliest wireless technology was having a hard time being heard over the constant pulse of Unci Maka, probably could have simply retuned their own frequency to something not in direct competition with hers, but instead, they just amplified the signal by four times and blasted their boombox into our mother's ears. All this stuff was invisible though, which means it doesn't really exist, except for JesusGod of course, but what would he care about our planet's prayer vibration?

This 7.83hz is naturally created as our orb builds a resonance between itself and the ionosphere, the positive ions from above rain down on us, as the negative ions sprout between our toes. We walk the Red Road between the two extremes, between the yang of the masculine sky energy and the yin of our Earth Mama, both are vital to our own energy flows and our continued evolution of consciousness. They keep us tuned to the planet, tuned to the universe, and this crippling cover-up of noise pollution has built an electric fence around the sheep of society. Our planet emits a low rumble as it hurls through space, a cyclical vibration that shakes life into being, the root note for all of creation and the base of connection, the comforting song of Unci Maka, and our government literally played a sour note at such a volume that all you could hear was the arrhythmic heartbeat of supremely white noise. Are they idiots, or just evil geniuses?

Then there's the whole HAARP thing, the High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program, the super secretive government science lab that on the admitted surface, is built to control the weather by blasting lasers into our delicate ionosphere, the one that works with the Earth to maintain our sanity. And if that's all in their public press release, who even knows if the conspiracy theories about vibrational mind control could ring true in the brainwaves of the sleepwalkers?

Or the ear pains of 440 hertz, another slight adjustment from our natural world of 432hz, and it refers to the precise tuning of the A-key, a reference point that the rest of the orchestra aligns themselves with. Posed as a boon to the piano market, it was the entire shift of the harmonic series of a species, but just enough so that anything natural felt unfamiliar. Sound familiar? 440 is the frequency that the entire discography of colonization has based their musical scale off of, but the sacred knowledge of universal vibration shows us that the rest of creation resonates with the coincidental square root of the speed of light, including our own chakras. They've ever-so-slightly detuned our voice, as well as our selective hearing, and just enough so that we can't make heads or tails out of anything the forest has to say. I know it sounds kinda ridiculous to think that they changed the entirety of music and the tuning of the human ear just to separate us from the rest of existence, but does it sound more sane to do it just for profit?

Or how about a calendar and time clock based on profit, as they alter our perception of longer wavelengths, while the invisible whispers of radio transmission literally scramble the airwaves. And our brains. Chemtrails clog the intake of celestial vibration, as if the sunrise was supposed to wake us up or something. There's the physically jarring aspects of engines and television, unless of course you don't watch tv, while you simply netflix and chill with your digital screen atop your lap, nope, definitely doesn't count as watching tv. And even if you don't count the rumbling diesel bus, someone still decided that it was a good idea to subject every child to twelve formative years under the distracting hum of fluorescent bulbs.

FLUORescent, FLUORide, FLOUR, and now your pineal gland is a proper dough ball. And fluoride, really? On the surface, a gracious gift from big brother to aid in oral hygiene, though it is labeled on our toothpaste as a poisonous substance, and on the rat poison in which it is the active ingredient.

The next level down enlightens us to it being a byproduct of aluminum manufacturing, the metal of the future, who in itself is toxic to eat off of, yet we rush out for lightweight cookware as we foil-wrap the excess. The water supply was the easiest way to disperse it without causing a stink, "Just tell 'em it helps bad breath," and the science of this well-known hazardous waste was paid for by aluminum, petroleum, and chemical manufacturers, and altered accordingly as they simultaneously marketed fluoridated pesticides.

But even below that level of criminal negligence, those that understood the true vibrational nature of our being, and the third eye chakra that connects us to our all-powerful host, they know that they can't stop our planet's heart, so they are poisoning our minds. The nazis used it in WWII prison camps to make the prisoners "stupid and docile," and attempted to do the same to the public through mass-medicated water. It's a major ingredient in most tranquilizers, one of the strongest anti-psychotics known, makes it difficult to defend one's freedom as it creates subservience to authority, and has been shown to reduce IQ as it destroys a particular region of brain function.

Fluoride, along with alcohol, calcifies our endocrine systems, specifically our pineal glands, our third eyes. The criminalized psychedelics of the shamans and the unadulterated additive-free Tobacco that marlboro made illegal, both decalcify the same chakra gland. They can all be overdone, but now I wonder if a liquid river would have the same effect on a sleeping country, as the connection I feel through the smoke of the sacred chanupa.

Surely they weren't smart enough to have thought of everything, some of this madness has to be the unknowing disruption of the colonized hive, there's just too much simple stuff that would make it hard to feel anything but static. Traffic filled cities full of disconnect, and between each civilian and the Earth as we know it, is a piece of nike's patented spine and chakra realignment rubber, a bit of jackhammered concrete, an underground layer of poop, and a massive rumbling subway that is hard to hear a dirty bum ask for a dinner dime over, let alone our mother's silent tears, but hey, at least you saved ten cents on your commute.

And money's the biggest vibration blocker of them all, at least if you let it pull you away from the pull of your heart. It makes it certain that only the elite of the world can afford to live on a positive vibration, unfortunately, a lot of them aren't on team 'abundant love.' Their philosophy of 'fear the scarce' has the population at the general's command, willing to literally work themselves to death in order to afford to live, as they succumb to the machine of malicious vibrations and ignore the gut feeling that something is amiss. They've got us so disconnected from who we are, that for a couple of dollars, we're willing to drive the drill of devastation deep into our mother, into our home, into the 5,972,000,000,000,000,000,000 ton water droplet that's flying around an even more massive nuclear reactor at 67,000 miles per hour. And when she tries to shake it off, emitting her strongest test of seismic vibration, we won't even hear it as anything more than a cue to rebuild, or to load into a fema camp, and await a text from the president with further destructions.

*******

You'll never catch me in a government mandated 'health camp', this time for the white people instead of the japanese, unless they catch me first I guess, but I'm sure they'll have a special camp for people like me. Until then, I'll look to the healers I know for my health advice, like how this dude was healing our mother's sacred sites, her energetic centers, her chakras, he was holding space and performing ceremonies, energy healing on a global scale, and doing it all around the world. She has injuries, wounds, scars, and we have the power to heal her with vibrations, as she does us, plus we can heal each other along the way.

The next workshop was an energy healing demonstration by a south african woman, she was removing a long-time back pain from a volunteer, who wept as it was swept away. Sometimes a negative energy will latch on to you and manifest itself as a pain or ailment, and no matter what western treatment you use, it can only numb the senses as it chases the symptoms. Unci also told me of a time she had a dagger of energy removed from her shoulder blade, years of pain vanished instantly, it seems she had actually been stabbed in the back by someone with malevolent energy. This woman used her hands, some medicine men use an Eagle fan, and there's a whole gamut of energy workers in-between. She removed it and slung the energy out to the side, dissipating it into a sea of positive vibes. Common quackery to the skeptic, but they'll also deny acupuncture, reiki, meditation, yoga and tie-dye.

And then it was our turn. Not for energy work, but for some medicine of our own, it was time for a water protector healing ceremony. The wiping of the tears. They asked Standing Rockers to stand up, cause that's what we do, and then they asked those of us who served at the frontline to come even closer. There were a lot of us, this moment already felt big, the first time I'd been honored for something I was this honored to do. And those who were not in this group, those who were not at camp but will be at the next one, their admiration was humbling. They wanted us to form a circle in the front, but it ended up wrapping around the amphitheater, and now we were all set to take in some spirit food.

The healing energy of food cannot be denied, except by millions of americans, but this was on another wavelength. Several women came around with a few different sacred dishes, the most healing of which was 'wasna', a dried Buffalo and Chokecherry composite that had been prayed with everyday, as this medicine practiced curing for an entire lunar cycle. No plate, it was just a pinch of each to absorb the energy of the prayer, a small handful, and as I ate it, I felt a high pitched energy move through me... because I was standing right next to the PA speaker as a flautist took the stage. Now I needed a touch of sound healing to recover from the frequency of the ceremony.

The spirit food made it around the circle, as did the entire crowd of adoring fans, each hugging every one of us, in a sunwise manner. So many tears, the most genuine long-lasting embraces, true emotion shared between unspoken strangers. Hugs to the right as we touch hearts with our left, it was such an impactful moment as I was reminded why we are here. It's tough sometimes when you're away from this life, or even when you're exclusively surrounded by us, so this way of receiving love directly from those who unconditionally support the movement we've dedicated our lives to, it's powerful.

And as the crowd thinned, the circle of water protectors folded in on itself as we each hugged one another, another level of instant connection when our similarly opened hearts made contact. We are family, regardless of acquaintance, we are forever united and can count on each other until the end of time, not the end of the world, just the end of that stupid colonized clock thing.

*******

What do you suggest then? How can we ever escape watching the clock until the end of time? Or at least until friday at five, when you turn back into a real person. I didn't use a clock at the farm, or Sun Dance, or most of the places I've traveled. I woke up with the sun, and generally fell back asleep for a bit, but I rose up based on what felt right, not what some machine told me to do. I still had stuff to get done, daily chores and sweat lodge, so how could I assure that it wasn't too late to pray?

For one, it never is, start now. For two, I just looked outside into the 'now' that I was living in. I was connected to the cycles of Unci Maka. I could just look at the Sun's position and I knew when the Cows were coming home. But that timeline flows through a constant state of flux, even less dependable than the cohesiveness of my prose, you simply can't live a life based on a variable solar cycle. Sure, the animals do, who happen to be at the top of my bucket list, and maybe if I forced them to live by a clock, they'd eat into the night, but we'll probably just shift feed time as the Sun sets.

That's farm life though, a simple way of minimal means, how could the folks in the big city survive without dinner reservations? Gotta wake up at least an hour before you want to, it's the only way to beat the gridlock, and gotta stop by the gym for a little gridiron, seems that this urban life has depleted any naturally occurring workout from the life of the massives. But hey, it's gonna take a lot of energy to keep this grid thing going, so how about taking a seat at your cubicle, and use your fancy muscles to punch this timeclock until we retire your operating system. You'd never get anywhere without a subway schedule, you'd forget your kids at the fluorescent farm, the corners of your cell service would be timeless, and you'd miss that big important business meeting about money and stuff, you know, the one with the venture capitalist from texas, think he does oil or something.

You're right, life as we know it would change, it would become impossible to get to work on time. At least if it was a job across town from your family, and one that you didn't care for so passionately enough, that you were eager to rise with the Sun and run to it. I don't punch a clock, but I wake up everyday pumped to be writing this thing, sharing my vibration with the planet in a good way, not putting off my own future just because someone paid for my presence.

You're right, without a clock, you can't get to work on time. You won't know when to join the cattle in the corral, the breakfast jam of the racing Rats, but without rush hour clogging our arteries, we might even be able to see through the smog of progress.

You're right, less than half of our petroleum usage is for personal transportation, then there's all the work trucks and transport for things like big ag, big industry, and big ol' military, and which of those could we possibly drop and still be proud americans? And if you weren't busy infrastructing either food chain, manufacturing, or warmongering, or the dirty fuel extraction that powers it all, I wonder how many more hours you coulda spent with your family before they leave you for working too much.

You're right, it'll be just as hard on the family to be penniless, so as long as you keep an eye on your money-to-love ratio, you should be ok. Don't worry, kids inherently know that you being gone all the time, is somehow a testament to how much you love them. They get it, it's not that you love money more than them, it's just so they can have a nicer life than you did, luxury items to spoil and shelter, like food and a roof to sleep under.

You're right, it would be way easier to stop clocking in at the factory, if room and board weren't a concern, like if there was a mass movement of filling yards with free food and simply not paying rent anymore. If clean local food, health, and home, were all included in being a human being, from there we would relieve the pressure to destroy, and be free to stretch our muscles of creation. You'd make way less money, but you'd have way less overhead to keep the ceiling up there, and you'd have a much shorter schedule of working for the weekend.

You're right, even the weekend is a way that the colonized calendar keeps us unquestioning of the overtime we put into earning beer money. We could always go back to a calendar based on moon cycles, much more relevant, and a clock wise to the Sun's habits. We could create a 'new' way to think of time, pretty much like the one that all cultures living in vibrational harmony with the planet, have used since the dawn of... time. The long and short days of our orbit could make up our holidays, not the twenty-four hour walmart.

You're right, it's much easier to just let the magic happen and be on indian time. To live in the now. How can you watch a physical representation of some made up future time, and possibly be living in the present? I hardly ever see a colonized clock, and when I do, it's normally some heady numerology sequence, just another little wonder of living in nowness. A gift from the universe for being present in the magic of the moment.

You're right, it's about time, to do something. Dang, you sure are right a lot.

*******

Sorry, don't mean to pump up your ego, and right after you started praying about humility too, my bad. Maybe you should come to sweat. I was just in a lodge earlier today, the 'now' me who is writing this, and I got humbled a bit. It was a hot one. I sang strong, which filled my lungs with steam and ran out my breath, I was put in my place by the second door, and laid down for all of the third. The prayer picks you up above it, and the songs, but I had visited the disharmony of colonization and had some purifying to do.

I like a hot lodge. I think there was something about the extreme heat of my very first ceremony that put me in a place of complete surrender, my ego melted as I thought I was going to, and I felt like I was at the door of somewhere new, the next place. I thought I was about to meet my creator, and then I died. The ego that I'd believed I was for all of my life, the logical man in charge, the prism of brain chemistry that clouds the white light within, the part of me whose job it is to make me feel separated from the rest of eternity, but who colonization has convinced is the only one who ever existed - I felt like I was dying because I thought I was my ego, and this ceremony just ripped it out of me and vaporized it on the steaming stones.

I just got body-slammed by the corners of a concrete house, we're not in the dakotas anymore, then the weight lifted in a way I'd never felt and I was as light as a tipi. The me I'd known all along, the one who already knew everything, who was all about experiencing a sweat lodge but unbelieving in the power of prayer, "how hot could it be anyway," that thing that had ahold of the reins of my being, just got kicked out of the driver's seat. Turns out I had been on autopilot the whole time, which explains any frustration I'd felt as I tried to steer myself away from my path, in pursuit of the materially possessed mindset that all of society strokes to completion.

You are not your ego, you've just never experienced a moment of living without it, as an adult anyway. And I'm not just talking about the egotistical big heads, even those down and defeated let their ego tell them that they are undeserving of the everything within. The inipi purifies our heart, breaks it free of the brain's control, we emerge from the womb of Unci Maka with the same connection experienced by a newborn entering this material plane. And the men need it more, we are physiologically more susceptible to our overgrown egos blocking out the light, especially when we live in a culture built by men in honor of egocentrism. A civilization founded on conquering and taking and owning, and sprawling an empire based on a concept of the superiority of man, and his destined revolt against a planet who could never outsmart his self-inflicted left-brainpower.

Now the brain's washed over the heart, and the men at the top of the pyramid have control of the easily corrupted human hive mind, our mob mentality, and as long as they can keep us disconnected from the light that empowers us to grow, they are free to expand the walls of our prison.

*******

I was a prisoner of prismatic preclusion, raised in a colony that convinced me to disbelieve the magic that I felt in my childhood heart, as I learned to count money and the punctuation of telling time instead. Then they got me hooked on science, a way to discover actual truths about the universe, and then build machines to destroy it. It all checked out in my head though, and all of the myths of my innocence seemed to have just been tall tales for short people, so obviously science was God.

Of course, I still believe that, but for a long time I thought they were incompatible. Even my dad, the christian literalist with a phd, couldn't convince me of a way that both could exist. And I could see that science was real, I could think it all out logically in my mind, I fully believed in evolution, the big bang, and quantum physics, and the closed minds of the nutty church people I crossed paths with, only convinced me of the sham that it all was. These poor Jesus freaks who just aren't as smart as me, all caught up on following the flock and not thinking for themselves, and they just turn a blind eye to the wars, the hate, the bigotry, and the hypocrisy of the for-profit church and state.

No, I believe in science. I believe that tiny particles on a plane that I can't even fathom, are spinning around to create everything in this billions-of-year-old universe, where a planet with the endless intricacies required to spawn life was able to manifest, and to evolve through trillions of species until it reached humanhood. How could I not? Science is tangible, trying to convince me that there's a global conspiracy to pretend that dinosaurs really existed, is not, and I even believe in most global conspiracies.

Science ruled supreme, and then music, the science of interwoven vibrations of sound, and as I learned more about how to manipulate the frequencies, I started to understand the tangibility of an unseen energy.

Then I fell in love, what I thought to be a scientific improbability, and my heart was opened to another unempirical energy that was undeniably affecting me in a big way. I couldn't believe in love before, it didn't compute with science and the known observable universe, but once it knocked me off my feet, I had no choice but to carry it in my heart unconditionally, even when the conditions were forty below lightening blizzards and the toxic clouds of corporate takeover.

I saw magic happen around every corner at Standing Rock, most of it seemed scientifically plausible, though it would require a statistically high rate of coincidental anomalies to have made it all come together. Up to and including my manifested journey to the spirit world, my first inipi ceremony, where the words shared as the water was poured, seemed to speak directly to my heart. And to my head. A scientific explanation of how our prayers were being unified and propelled into the universe, as they affected the subatomic Butterflies of all they encountered, which exactly fit into my technical understanding of audio vibrations and the way they interact with each other.

As I was brought to my knees from the energy of the ancestors, I was brought to an understanding of universal proportions, who birthed a Sun, who birthed a planet, who birthed a completely interconnected web of life that we are a part of, not in control of. I had been humbled in the lodge, ego broken down, to a point that I could see past the blockages of my mind and feel the words resonate with my heart. The prayers. The songs. During the lodge, the drum shook the heatwaves that were shaking me apart, powerful voices of prayer circling the tiny hut, engulfing me as the soundtrack to my own cremation. The vibrations moved through me, but all I could do was pray they would be over soon.

Then, after we warmed back up from freezing our toes off, after melting our faces off, and after more of the vibrational universe teachings that just seemed to click, they all sat around the drum and sang Sun Dance songs. The hypnotic cadence of these encrypted messages to the stars was entrancing, especially in my infantile state, and it facilitated the space for my heart to begin unlocking the secrets of the universe. Or the tuned-up songs were unlocking them for me. Connecting dots in my head and energizing my heart, guiding me up a spiral of growing connection.

I didn't quite realize what was happening to me at the time, it took all winter to gestate, then a single moment in the spring of flipping a switch inside, and I was on. Awake. But I was just born. I am weak. A spiritual connection with Unci Maka is like a muscle, and I had one the size of a baby's arm, but the more you exercise it, the stronger it gets. The road I'm on is not an easy one, but I've already seen that as I put the work into it, I'm able to get way more out of it everyday. It's just like any relationship really, a building of energy between the two of you, and I'm freakin in love with my planet. I'm not jealous at all though, get on in here.

*******

The entire universe on every scale is made of interwoven vibrational energy, the energy you put out affects everything around you, the energy that the bad people put out affects everything around them. The Earth is sick with fear and negativity, malicious controlling powers intentionally disrupt positive vibrations, we can combat them directly with the only thing they're scared of, the only thing superior to the firepower of tyranny. Love. Heart vibrations. Unified prayer. Five people in a lodge could sing out enough healing energy for a sacred site to begin recovering. 15,000 standing in solidarity created the movement of the water protectors. Hundreds of thousands of candle wielding protesters flooded south korea's streets and overthrew their oppressor, and nowadays they're striking up reunification and disarmament deals. Just imagine what our overpopulated ninety-nine percent could do, if we pulled our heads out of the quicksand and decided that this very moment, was the most important time to be alive. You only have one now to live. Starting now.

Wakan Tanka, wopila, thank you for this day,

for the Sun, for the Moon, for the soil of Unci Maka,

and the water that connects us to her heart.

We are so grateful for every piece of this great mystery,

and continually humbled as you reveal the depths

of the interconnectedness of existence.

Thank you for keeping us strong in heart, and prayer,

and for the perseverance to stand up

when others say that all hope is lost.

Thank you for our understanding of those who are lost themselves,

and the patience to help them along in a good way,

without becoming disheartened

when their transformation doesn't happen overnight.

We know that this is a long road, thank you for the humility

to step back and see that it is not a race to the finish,

but an eternal journey that is happening right now.

Thank you for the constant reminders that we are on the right path,

and the reassurance that we will be victorious

as long as we carry love in our hearts.

Thank you, thank you, thank you,

for every single moment

that we get to experience this beautiful creation.

Please help us to see the ways that we can each

personally bring healing to those around us,

and in turn bring healing to ourselves.

Please help us to see the differences in each other's walks,

as unique elements of the same, not a mechanism for separation.

Please help us to wake up and realize that we are all one love,

and help us to break free from the barriers that keep us divided.

Please help us to unlock the cages that imprison Unci Maka.

Omakiya yo.

Aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

*******

Sometimes I'm one for long goodbyes, though now I only say toksa, see you soon, but either way, I can drag one out. For days sometimes. So I'll spare you the scene, or else I might get wrapped up in another chapter about heady space crystals or something. We finally hit the road back to Unci's, well, actually, maybe we should stop by the camp at the Wind Cave, while we're already in the Black Hills and all. Carolyn had been talking with a caravan of teenage twenty-somethings from the indigenous youth council, they might be stopping by the cave too, and if they get involved, then the fight for the Black Hills could very well be the next Standing Rock. They started the first one.

The next generation are not the future of the movement, they are the now, they are the ones with the uncorrupted convictions to do what is right in the moment. Undefeated by the complacency of defeat, unwilling to believe that nothing can be done, understanding that it is each and every one of our responsibilities to make a stand, regardless of whether it's "your problem" or not. They see that any attack on our precious home, is an attack on their children's children. They see a generation of grown adults completely wrecking any chance for their future. They see that the time is now.

And I saw them at the front of the frontline, standing on the barricade, plywood shields to slow the bullets, gas masks to slow the fog, megaphones to remind the government that children are people too, can we please think about them for a change?

The seventh generation is upon us, the rising up of those unjaded by society's insistence on helplessness, and I'm sure glad that I don't have to face off against them. The faces on the other side, both the flying felines of private security and the local police who were "just doing their job, although they didn't sign up for this," they've got their work cut out for them. It's easy to overwhelm a peaceful mob of prayer with the firepower of superiority when it's just a tipi full of indian grandmothers, but how's it gonna feel when the interconnectedness of the internet, empowers a nationwide movement of upstanding teenagers that look like, wait a second, is that your kid?

The seventh generation is not tired of fighting, they just got enlisted, and they will inspire far more recruits at a much faster rate than big oil could possibly keep up with. No excuse of mortgage or career or bad back or "sorry, I have to focus on the kids right now, I don't have time to think about their future." Once the disease of destruction goes viral, and millions are instantly gramming and snapping chats from the frontline, the chains of command are certain to be riddled with weak links, as human parents are conflicted about shooting children for a corporation. Even fox news would be on our side. Maybe.

It is a shame that a few white kids being mistreated would raise more alarm than the millions who suffer everyday, or the death sentence of devastation that we insist on imprisoning our own future to, but as they come into their own, and understand the power of their privilege, they will not deny the imbalance tilted in their favor, and they will embrace their advantage as they use it to topple the entire power structure.

And they're already doing it. Kids around the world have been organizing school strikes as they demand that their governments acknowledge our climate emergency, and prioritize the planet over profit, otherwise, they see no need to invest their time in a future that we insist on condemning.

They are capable of understanding that we are all human, and that no matter the color of your skin or the country of your birth, we all have the same inherited right to life. They are capable of seeing the strength in our unity, and in our differences, as they are unwilling to accept the indoctrinations of separation. They are capable of giving up their free ride down the flooded mainstream, in order to return clean water to the rest of the planet, are you?

*******

They probably had an app or something though. We only had a couple newbies with a flip phone, a hippie who follows the cliches of his heart, and a Lakota grandma who tried to get the guy at the AT&T store to unlock her facebook account. Obviously she was our navigator, so we just googled Wind Cave, that should work, right? We knew that the camp was small, really just a couple of people keeping tabs on the 'progress,' we'll hope to run into it, but it may not jump out and bite us. So when we show up at the visitors center of Wind Cave national park, Unci jumps out to bite them. She runs up on the fully armed park ranger and requests info on the resistance camp to stop the seismic testing of the cave network. She essentially asked dapl security where the frontline was. I was cracking up, kinda, a bit nervous based on her previous run-ins with authority, but once we escaped the eyes of the law, I couldn't contain myself.

And we were never in any danger anyway, the cop was as nice as could be, we were just some confused travelers, why, he'd never even heard of seismic testing. Of course it wasn't happening in the public sector of the park, and the out-of-sight out-of-mind philosophy of our american shuteye, has even those closest to the blasting zone convinced that it could never happen in their backyard. If only they could see the truth, that if we allow this vast cave network to collapse before the economy, well, that would be the biggest loss of all time, we're talking about a handful of good hardworking-class american jobs here, priorities people.

Speaking of, we didn't have time to stop by another ranger's station on the way home, we actually had to go to work in the morning. Like, actual work, like, for money. Yuck. We took the long way home as the Sun set over the Black Hills, passed a Buffalo standing almost in the road, must be on the right path. Then three more, another omen. And as we rounded the next corner, we drove through a crowd of twenty as they cheered us on, or made sure we left, either way, we were honored to slow down and thank the freely roaming Tatanka Oyate as our path intersected with theirs.

And this crazy path I'm on, it had me publishing a book denouncing capitalism and agriculture, in the same week that I started a job at a Pumpkin patch. 'Started a job' might be a stretch, it was really just a few hours of day labor, but even that's enough to cause concern in this convicted man's uncaged heart. I'd harvested plenty of food back at the farm with little dilemma, save a fence or two, but this was certainly different.

It was the money. This wasn't a homestead growing clean food for the nourishment of those who were there to tend the garden, this was an actual farm, operated by the produce market down the street from Unci's. A piece of conquered land, enslaved to work for not only a single species, but for the monetary gain of a single member of our race, as they charge another for the sacred right of food. And honestly, to most it seems a noble dream of the simple life, running a fruit stand and farming out the country, and certainly even dirty bomb vegetables are healthier than the procession of the grocery aisles.

And if contributing to the delinquent vibrations of south dakota wasn't enough, there's also the bit about me exchanging my precious lifeforce for some worthless piece of paper, and coincidentally, through the exact industry that my heart compels me to dismantle. But, I don't quite believe in coincidence anymore, so when our traveling companions lined up some work to replenish Unci's vacation fund, I didn't consider it an occupation of the empire, I saw it as a chance to taste the genetically modified predisposition of an undocumented farm worker, first hand.

*******

We combed the field with clippers as we freed the Pumpkins, though there was no where for them to run. I daydreamed of poking holes in this gated community, but before I knew it, we had two trucks loaded and we were paroled. The warden of the crew hadn't been some tyrannical prison guard of oppression, she was as nice as could be as she worked right alongside us, even the indians. She was out doing her job, a respectable hard day's work of putting food on the table, and so was her second in command, a mexican immigrant living in a state that would most certainly vote to send him home. If only the indians had maintained a stronger immigration policy.

We live in a country founded on the importation of population, and we still paul revere anyone with a fun european accent, but God forbid any of them darkies try to hop our wall and steal hardworking american jobs. I was the only white guy on the crew and I wasn't even in the market for employment, but we were all they could find, they'd have hired as many caucasians as had shown up, but I was it. They even paid ten bucks an hour, cash, so it's not that an influx of immigrants cut the wage out from under america, it's that even dirt poor americans are too good to do the work of the dirty mexicans.

Still gonna let I.C.E. illegally alienate and immorally steal kids, as they're locked into old walmarts for some good old fashioned indoctoring, nothing new here, plus it's a good trial run for converting the grids of walmart into prison camps, just look at 'em real close sometime. We can vote to deport the latest wave of the american dream, all in the name of saving jobs for the dreaming americans, but I wonder how many jobs we'd lose when the infrastructure of food supply goes home for siesta. Then there's the consideration that monsanto's manipulations, and john deere's automatic milking machines, have also decreased the need for hands on the farm, but the techno-profits of future food already own washington, so we don't get a vote on that one.

No, they don't want us coming to the polls to fix the system they rigged, they want us caught up in a battle of 'us' vs 'them.' Divided into the democrats and republicans of a democratic republic - sure sounds pretty similar to me. And the divisiveness of democracy is meant to keep us incapable of action, much like the stagnant standstill of fractionated reservation land, and with consensus of change an impossibility, the government is free to 'govern' the path of humanity. To limit the evolution of our revolution, to slow the flow of our lifelines, and by even its earliest definitions, 'govern' meant to inhibit the power to the people.

And the next level up are the divided highways between our international relations, as our unchallenged nationalism keeps us contained within the borders of our closing minds. America vs mexico - build a wall. America vs canada - blame canada. America vs muslims - give up your civil rights as we bomb innocent civilians in any country that doesn't bow to our superiority.

You're dang right, we're america, we gotta show 'em who's boss. Gotta have a country we can be proud of, can't be proud of no sissy. We can't let some other nation on the other side of the world figure out their own way of exploiting natural resources, not when we're talking about oil and opium here, and not when we've already patented a perfectly good system for controlling the masses. So we'll just fund some operatives to take out the functioning government as we stick our puppets in there, and when they decide they don't like our ideas for their homeland either, we'll just use their names to wage endless wars on terror-fied innocent civilians.

We trained and funded the 'evil' regimes of Saddam and Osama in order to displace a government that wouldn't bend over, and then we bent them over too. Can you imagine growing up in a place where your way of life was working fine, and then the bullets of oppression sweep in and dictate who you're allowed to be, as they take anything that can possibly turn a profit? I know a few that can sympathize.

I don't think I can blame anyone for holding a grudge against a country who bombed my village, shot my parents, and mistreated my sister as they were blowing off steam from a hard day's work. I'd want to blow them off too. But that wasn't you, you didn't do anything wrong, that was your government, and even you can agree that they're not perfect. So the next suicide bomber that feels that passionately about how bad america must be stopped, well, I'm sure he wouldn't come after you. You've got white privilege, remember?

Or do you remember after nine-eleven, when we gave up an uncivil amount of rights in order to display "shock and awe" to an entire country, when really it was just their government that we wanted? Or maybe just the cia-funded splinter cells. Or maybe just the oil and poppy fields. And do you remember how approving americans were, to wage war against a country that wasn't even the one that we claim did the attacks? We were ready to blow every one of 'them' sky high, after 'they' attacked a country that has held their homeland hostage at misslepoint for their entire life.

So, no, you should be fine, I bet there aren't too many foreigners that hold blanket grudges against all american capitalist pigs. But I can't blame anyone for being upset with a country whose citizens did nothing to stop the complete annihilation of everything they ever held sacred in their life.

See what I did there? That last one also describes the mistreatment of the indians, who you would never have treated as poorly as our ancestors did, but that's in the past - america's current stealing of homelands, is not. You have a duty to stop your government from committing genocide in your name, at least if you want to believe that you wouldn't have let it happen on your watch. It's happening right now. Casting a democratic vote for the republic, will not stop the profits of the war machine, both sides are in on it, the only option is to stand up, assemble, and overthrow the US government. It's time for revolution. If we can't do it for ourselves, then we must do it for the innocent lives that we have yet to take, otherwise we're no better than their murderers. And by the way, everyone's beef is with the tyranny of our government, ours too, so once we throw them out, we're gonna get along just fine, we have so much in common.

*******

Though we've now arrived at yet another uncommon occasion of my current contemplation, today, I touched money for the second time, although I think I managed to hardly make skin contact on the way to my pocket. A whole whopping fifteen bucks, I guess we only picked for an hour and a half, definitely drove and waited on them for twice that long, and now that I've started commoditizing my time again, I feel the urge to push for a raise. I don't like this feeling of selling my soul, I'd much rather give it away. Which I did, as soon as we got home to Unci, and then she traded it for some greenbacks I can actually get down with. But, is someone who eats weed brownies, a cannibalist?

We weren't quite tired of Squash yet, not after a measly one and a half, so I pulled out some symbiotic leftovers, Corn, Beans and Butternut, and I proceeded to top a tossed crust with the trinity as I turned the table on their preconceived notions of pizza. "I didn't know you could do that with pizza." Yeah, I get that a lot.

And now, even as much of an existential experience as yesterday's visitation to the Pumpkin prison turned out, today was an actual milestone. I was publishing my first book, 'Step One: Save the World - The Journey of a Water Protector.' Just publishing it online, needs a good editor before it's printed, and maybe a good author too. I'd spent all of last week doing a final read through, still missed so many typos, but this digital screen had to go, it was time.

Wait, not time yet, still gotta design a cover to be converted to a thumbnail for people to judge the book by. No photoshop on this computer, so I found a free shareware version and intended to design some kind of water droplet motif. Then as I was hanging out in the apartment, I found this patch, a simple water drop sewn from two pieces of scrap material, the perfect colors to catch the eye, but still keep it simple.

Unci said, "Oh, you like that? So-and-so water protector made that for me at Sun Dance." No way. A water protector who I had served with, made this from scraps at the most sacred Sun Dance, no wonder I hadn't felt compelled to design a cover yet, this was it. Still took a bit of tweaking, but I was yet again humbled by the depths to which the universe is looking out for me.

So now it was time, hit the library for wifi, double check each entry, and, click, published. And about five seconds after it was live, I looked at the page and realized that I had just published a book about standing up to the nefarious government of the united states - on september eleventh, exactly sixteen years after the government may or may not have allegedly concocted the greatest wool pulling of american eyes. And sixteen's a sacred number, four fours, and then I noticed that my unabridged story of getting off the bridge, just so happened to come out to be 777 pages, a super sacred number. Uh huh. Am I still supposed to believe in coincidence at this point? Oh no, I'm way over that by now.

Still not quite over the internet, getting real close though, just need a few days of sending links to friends and a few related outside sources. Which means a few days of being 'online,' so a barrage of messages to tend to, or not, plus I should probably start manifesting the next thing. Staying here with Unci has been great, just what I needed, but that's because I needed electricity and stuff. Now that I'm about to drop my coverage, I need to be in a tipi somewhere.

*******

She understands, that's where she would rather be too, but she's in a tough spot of having to pay rent here. And she's even got an unleased piece of land on the rez, ten acres, but still she feels fenced into colonization. It's not because of the meds she needs in town, or the access to a few organics, she can't escape to the rez because she's caught up in the prison corporation of america.

While I spent every waking hour working on the book, she did the same trying to navigate the web of cages that held her family hostage. Two of her sons and her uncle were behind the fence, and for the same crime - being native. Indians are for some reason severely over-represented in the overpopulations of south dakota's privatized prisons, they must be as bad as the black people back home I guess, although it seems that a staggering percentage are serving hard time for non-violent crimes, some that aren't even illegal in many states.

A lot are caught up in the cartelled meth ring on the rez, an imported intoxicant that conveniently made its debut just six months after a brand new prison finished construction, and sat empty for six months, and now it is disproportionately filled with indigenous americans. Obviously mere coincidence, our corporate government would never intoxicate the indians in order to exploit their way of life for a profit. Oh yeah, I guess we did do that a few times. Well, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

And they don't, the overcrowded cellblocks of many facilities sit in a dilapidated state, but no need to renovate, they've already got a full roster of clients. It's much more profitable to just build another one, plus it provided all those american construction jobs, as america super-sizes the sentence we hand our children. And just like the road crew in the forest, the free masons who put up the walls of the system, only get paid if prisons keep going up. If you build it, they will come. Especially when we have a lower class race that no decent white american will blink an eye at mistreating, haven't yet at least.

So there's the masonry bit, plus the hardworking billy clubs of racist guards who finally found a job where they can be themselves, and even the prisoners can find work within these walls. Sure, they work for pennies on the dollar, and just to buy commissary snacks to supplement what we try to pass off as minimal nutritional value, but at least they get free room and board. Of course, the work they do gets marked up and sold to the highest bidder, and low labor cost means higher profit, but that's just doin bidness - said every slave owner ever. Made in america, don't you worry, although their hands just aren't as nimble as the tiny little chinese fingers that stitched your wardrobe together, maybe we should just send the asians to prison camps. Again.

And all that stuff is on top of the government check that we send them, well, that taxpayers send them, and just like any government handout, it only weakens the resolve of everyone involved. We privatized the prisons, meaning that they are now run by privately owned for-profit corporations, but we still have to pay them out of our pockets. So how is this setup anything more than just a further drain on the system? Ah, they have business savvy, they can squeeze a dollar out of thin air, or thin inmates, they don't have to answer to anyone but the shareholders, who are all about cutting food costs and increasing the customer base. They make more money the tighter they can pack them in, as they innovate new ways of lowering their quality of life.

And you thought that this world out here was riddled with disconnection, in there, the separational state is even more instantly gratified. The longer we can keep them broken, the longer we can get paid, plus we want to make sure they come back and see us. Concrete cubicles with fluorescent bulbs on twenty-four hours a day, and outside time sees four more concrete walls, a little Sun, but not even a visual connection with Unci Maka.

Many went in for minor offenses, but in order to survive inside, they were forced to become full-fledged hardened criminals. Gotta join a gang, based on race, and just so happens that most of the guards side with the supremest gang of them all, who in here carry their privilege proudly. Sure, you're just in here for having a little bit of weed, a 'drug' that was purchased legally for recreation, one I've never known to cause anyone to do anything more than play call of duty. But now that you're officially a 'bad guy,' it's time to start acting like one.

Ok, now I'm obviously exaggerating a bit, must be stoned or something, there's no way that today's progressive views on legalizing such a useful medicine, would allow for the strict sentencing of our outdated misconceptions that schedule pot to the same timeslot as heroin. Sure, maybe it was initially villainized in part to criminalize a darker class of 3/5ths voters, those who only recently received their freedom, so how bad could they possibly miss it? But that's the old america, back when it was still socially acceptable for cops to shoot black people, though I guess fads do seem to make a comeback.

*******

I think pot might be here to stay for a while, hopefully at least seven years, because that is how long Carolyn's son is facing for possessing a tiny amount of marijuana. Today. In america. Seven years in prison. First time offender. Imagine how different your life would be if you had to pay seven years of innocence for that teenage dimebag. He's no teenager either, probably about my age really, and his girlfriend is eight months pregnant. Stuck on the outside with a rent payment that used to be paid by the job that he just lost for no call/no show. What is she supposed to do now? How will she survive? Without doing something illegal at least? And how will his seven-year-old son have any chance of standing up to his oppressors, when he's never even seen his father outside of the visitation room's digital screen? Don't worry though, they're building a juvenile detention center right down the street.

Well, maybe he should have thought about all that before he broke the law. Before he walked into a legal dispensary and legally purchased two capsules of cannabis oil, which then dried out as they sat on a shelf in the privacy of his own home, and as the police came in for a completely different alleged offense that he was never charged for, they found two empty capsules with the slightest residue of evaporated marijuana concentrate. He got caught with two old empty weed pills in his own home, and now he's facing seven years in prison. Makes me feel sick to my stomach, good thing pot cures nausea.

No worries though, not that anybody was, he should get a pretty fair trial from the white judge and his golfing buddy, the white district attorney, too bad it isn't par for the course to include his public pretender, I mean defender. Everybody knows you can get away with murder with a good lawyer, even if you're black, but you also have to be rich. And guess what, he wasn't. He wasn't some gangbanging hustler with pockets full of cashflow, he was an expecting father who worked an old-fashioned american construction job as he fixed up the nursery. A few grand might save his son's future, but what can he do about it from behind bars? At least the court will appoint you one of the lawyers who isn't good enough to get actual white clients, coincidentally, that same court profits the most from a guilty verdict, oh that's right, I don't believe in coincidence. But for her son's sake, we'll give his lawyer the benefit of the doubt, cause I doubt he's got any other benefits in his corner.

Unci was on the phone constantly, including a monitored call from her son almost everyday, that's nice at least, even if she had to spend her disability check to buy a fifty dollar phone card every couple of days. And it only worked to call her phone, which meant that she needed to relay some messages for him, like telling his unborn son that he loved him, and telling his lawyer that he'd like to get out sooner than later.

You'd think even the court appointed lackey could figure that one out, but Unci couldn't even get him to return her call. Her son didn't even have an arraignment date yet, and from the inside they said he should, so he should probably talk to his lawyer and get sorted out of here. She called their office, but got filtered out as unimportant by the receptionist whose primary job was to screen calls. "He's in court right now, can I have him give you a call back?" Sure, he's somewhere doing some real-life lawyering, so at least we know he shows up for his clients.

And after an evening and morning of returning calls and inadvertently overlooking us, Unci called again just as a reminder. "Out of the office, sorry." And this continued for a full colonized work week, while her son was bent over the limbo stick in an unknown holding cell pattern. Finally, on the following monday, she still didn't speak to the lawyer, but managed to capture the attention of the help, "What? He's still in there? We thought he got out last week."

Hold the phone lady, you did what? There's more layers of incompetence here than in any piece of work I've ever thrown together. You mean to tell me that not only do you publicly prefer plea deals because it's the closest you ever come to winning, and it provides the highest hourly wage as you buddy up to the DA in hopes of a real job, but now I'm to understand that you don't even make the first appearance to see if your clients made theirs? I'm pretty sure a simple call to the court could have solved this one, but we're already familiar with your office's phone etiquette. And do you not already stop by the courthouse everyday anyway? Unless maybe those phone excuses had been nothing more than that. No, sorry, he never made it into the office this week, although she did seem to have spoken to him recently enough to have gathered some misinformation about our guy's case. And do you think that there may have been a reason that a desperate mother was calling your office every single day and pleading for a simple update?

But, in their defense, they were defense attorneys, their customers are criminals, probably guilty, but less than human either way. And only when convicted, are they on the hook to pay for their defender out of their own commissary. Courts don't make money from not-guilty verdicts, cops don't get a check for not arresting people, you have to pay to perform community service, and if you don't, then the government is happy to subsidize your application fees for the legalized slave trade of modern day america.

*******

Needless to say, Unci wasn't the happiest with her son's legal team, so she scrambled to find another way to help him out. She could scrape together five hundred bucks after her next check, not gonna be enough for much more of a lawyer, but maybe it could be a down payment on a paralegal who wasn't a complete moron. She called a local office and was already more satisfied with her experience, they actually listened to her, of course the part about her paying them money might have persuaded their sympathetic ear a bit. Not enough though. It would take two grand to lock them into busting him out, so Unci kept her on the line for as much free advice as she could get.

She rattled off about the racism of the system, to a white lady who just "mm-hmm'd", and then she went off about the whole charade being a for-profit storefront. "Well, that doesn't sound right to me, I think it actually costs them money to put people in prison."

Yeah, she actually said that, a for-profit lawyer who is somehow clueless about how the real world works. Now, she certainly could have been a malicious entity who was personally responsible for the financial fraud of the felon's freedom, but I think she was just totally naive to any concept that the american judicial system is anything but just. Which is pretty freakin scary to think about. She assumed that everyone locked up was guilty, and even reminded Unci that, "Well, he did break the law."

A law that her state government still clung to, even when the lawmakers in DC can take a legal toke. And yeah, it costs money to incarcerate an overpopulation of minimal offenders, lots of money, that taxpayers pay to the government, who turns around and stuffs the pockets of the prison industrial complex, who had coincidentally contributed to the campaigns of both candidates.

I can understand how any normal person might be unaware of the corruption that controls our country, even a lawyer who takes money from the presumably innocent to save them from the chain gang, but how could you be that educated and plugged into the system, and not understand the vocabulary of the nation you defend? 'Privatized' means 'for-profit.' Privatized prisons, privatized healthcare, privatized schools, and now the current leadership of america is trying to privatize the reservations too. He's trying to make a business out of oppressing indians, doesn't he know that we already did that one?

We have turned every facet of human survival into a business, things that most countries give away because they understand the value of investing in their people, but we're too blinded by the profits of population to invest in anything more than another cage to put them in. And yet we beg for more. We have somehow been convinced that the oppression of another, only fuels our own freedom, in a world where 'cost of living' is a real thing. We are not free. They own us. Your birth certificate is issued by the department of commerce, on bank bond paper, authorized by the "American Bank Note Company", and you've only ever been allowed to posses a photocopy of the original receipt. You are a dollar sign in the eyes of our privatized nation. Welcome to the incarcerated states of america.

*******

As much as I feel overwhelmingly sympathetic to Unci's son and the predicament his newborn family is in, I do have to acknowledge that he does have it easier than a lot of inmates, he's got a loving mother on the outside who would go hungry to make sure that he didn't. I bet a lot of prisoners don't have that.

She kept two commissary accounts stocked so that her big boys could stay fed, it's a shame when a bag of cheetohs is actually a better meal than what the system provides. And the cost of phone calls skyrockets once they have you locked into a contract, but she knows that her daily reassurance that everything is ok, is one of the only things they have to look forward to, so she puts her last twenty in the account. Don't actually worry about her starving though, I mean, she does have a private chef staying in the spare room. As long as she likes bugs.

She can send a fifty dollar gift box with snacks to her other son every month, so of course she does, he's still got another six months to serve and she wants it to hurry up and be over. That's why she has to keep the apartment, he's gotta have a place to land when he gets out, and it's gotta be in pierre. Can't get out of the system and not be in the system. Can't seek a safe place to re-assimilate on the reservation, where you can stay for free and be surrounded by the support of family who don't hate natives. Nope, gotta stay here and get a job to pay your parole officer, in the town that got you in trouble in the first place, surrounded by bad influences, plus bigotry and racism, and that's just the cops. And no place to pray in the city, at least not the way we do, you'd have to return to the rez for the nearest sweat lodge.

Though they actually do have sweat lodges in some dakota prisons, very considerate considering the population demographics, probably some religious freedom act or something that forces them to allow a prayer that came with its own convictions until 1978. Doesn't force them to respect it though. And why would they, a lot of the natives don't even respect it. I'm starting to see that not nearly as many of the indians as I thought, hold this way to pray as sacred as I do.

I get it now. Some who are several generations outside of this way of life, don't even acknowledge their heritage. If you could pass as 'not indian' back in the day, your chances of survival were far greater if you didn't volunteer your background. It was better to be black, so a lot of the half-breed east coasters simply forgot their indian roots, and didn't pass on any native wisdom to their kids, which may have saved their lives. It was illegal to pray, and barely legal to exist, though no law man would take an indian's side in a massacre.

Missionaries kidnapped the kids and forced their way of prayer onto them, and preached about the sweat lodge being the work of the devil, and you know what we do to the devil children don't you little Wiyaka Yellow Bear, actually, we'll call you Timmy Johnson now that we've cut off all your hair. We didn't even let them keep their 'foreign' names, so there's no way we were letting them pray in a way that we didn't understand, especially not when we saw that it worked.

So nowadays, most indians don't sweat, they drink instead, and getting locked up doesn't necessitate a return to the Great Spirit. But you're native, so you're allowed into the inipi once a week, a darkened dome without camera or guard, so those who have no desire to treat the ceremony with respect, don't. They take the drugs smuggled to them by the guards, into the lodge, into this sacred space of purification, at least to those who undoubtedly need it the most. The generational trauma of the catholic church, has somehow even infiltrated this prison sweat lodge. And since they don't take it seriously, they don't sing the right songs, or even know them, and now the imprisoned members of medicine families can't offer the native community any type of healing, connection, or solidarity. No, I don't imagine that would be too good for business.

And the targeting of medicine families, that's not a jail thing, that's a US government thing. Has been for a while. They were even more popular targets than the women and children, as we eradicated the now believed to be 100,000,000 american natives who lived here before us. A hundred million indians, not a few sporadic bands of dirt worshiping savages, they had proper civilizations - not whatever this thing we got going on is.

We murdered 100,000,000 americans, the presidents on your precious money were all about it, and somehow you're still worried about some foreign terrorist. But that wasn't you, you never killed anyone, sure, you live on indian land, but if you had been around when america was committing genocide, you would have stepped up and said no. You would not have let your government, who you voted in to represent your interests, commit egregious acts against an entire race of people in the name of capitalism. You would have stood up and said this war is over. The tyranny is over. The US government is over. Wouldn't you have?

*******

But the religious persecution of medicine people didn't stop after the first wave of spiritual leaders were assassinated, nor did it subside when the indians were locked into reservations, no, they continued to hunt medicine men and women who tried to preserve the original instructions and offer connection to their tribe. The Sun Dance was illegal. The sweat lodge was illegal. But Unci's unci didn't give a flying frigg, must be genetic.

Carolyn is a descendant of a Lakota medicine family that secretly performed inipi ceremonies in a vast cave network, away from the watchful eye of dapl, I mean the US. They risked penalty of death to bring the prayer to the people. A most noble act indeed, as long as your initials are J.C. But the church was scared, and the army was scared, and it was obvious that we wouldn't be able to shock and awe a people so connected to some magic vibration of the land that we wanted, so we killed any spiritual warrior we could find, as we tried everything we could to disrupt their connection. And we succeeded, well, slowed it down at least, but this vibration is the essence of life and cannot be stopped that easily. May not be able to kill it, but I bet we can lock it away for eternity. Or at least a hundred years.

Carolyn's uncle, a medicine man who spoke out about the government, is serving a hundred year sentence for a crime he didn't commit. Sure, that's what they all say, and who really knows, but either way, he's eighteen years towards his release date of 2100 for a nonviolent crime. Yep, my grandma's uncle has another 82 years of sitting in prison for standing up. Geez, no wonder you're still sitting there.

He's not sleeping through his time inside though, he's been documenting the racial injustice in the justice system, like how the guards let white guys make native beadwork and sell it in the gift shop as authentic indian craft, but not the indians. Or Pheasantland Industries, ever heard of it? No? Well you've certainly heard of their products, you might even be reading this book on one of them, at least if AT&T is your sentence serving provider, though they also seem to offer book printing and binding too...

And by 'they,' I mean the prisoners of south dakota. Pheasantland is the public name of the slave trade whose clients don't want "made by imprisoned indians" printed on their plastic packaging. Just order from pheasantland, a nice rural family sounding company, and now you have plausible deniability to relieve you of any guilt you feel about exploiting those who've already lost everything. It's the retail end of our serving industry, and just like our prisons, they lower costs far more efficiently than crime rate.

You don't believe our country is a corporation, fine, well how about this incorporated company that markets manpower by the year, not the hour, are they a corporation? If you think that you're a conscious consumer (oxymoron at best) who doesn't purchase the products of sweatshops and child labor and slavery, instead sticking to american made ingenuity, well guess what, that was native american made injunuity and they were far from cage-free. Probably cornfed though.

But that's all old news, capitalism runs the country on the backs of the lowest class, while the rest of us get to enjoy a convenient new smartphone. Plus, just imagine all the cool stuff we'll have invented by the time her uncle gets out at the age of 164. Probably won't know what to do with it all, oh, that's right, he'll be the one putting it all together, well maybe he can give us a few inside tips.

But for now, Carolyn will be there, she'll trade letters with him, handle his affairs on the outside, protest in front of the courthouse and flood the governor's office with phone calls. I listened to the conversations with the governor's assistant, almost as frustrating as with the lawyers, although the woman really was as nice as could be. She politely said that she would relay the messages to the big man in charge, those asking for a gubernatorial pardon for her uncle - "Who? Some indian? Eh..."

Then Unci kept digging and came up with a new angle, but they insisted that she had to take it up with the specific judge who had tried her uncle. They couldn't tell her who that was over the phone, but they could send her some kind of paperwork that would have the info. After a week of calls they finally sent it, but it had no details of the case, only a vague instruction of submitting the form to find the judge's name. After another week, still nothing, and another call found confirmation that the assistant understood that nothing she had sent us would help in any way, but she remained the politest deliverer of nothing that you've ever seen. And that's politics for you.

*******

And Unci was quite political herself, and had strong medicine, and was not afraid to stand toe-to-toe with the united states government. She was charged with inciting a riot at the frontline of Standing Rock. Months later, the trumped-up charges were dropped, as they were for many water protectors that didn't take a fictitious plea bargain, but for her, they brought about a new round of prosecution. So, they have a thing against medicine people, or just outspoken grandmas that don't take the stuff they're rolling downhill. Who knows, but I did get a first hand account, so I guess you can decide for yourself.

She was at the frontline praying with her ceremonial pipe, the most sacred instrument of prayer in the Sun Dance way of life. The National TigerSwan Guards started advancing as they sprayed mace and rubber bullets through the teargas fog. Water protectors insisted that Unci retreat, she had a hard enough time breathing as it was, so she hesitantly obeyed. The fully armed and shielded cops got into formation a few feet ahead of her. She started to not be able to breath. She managed to escape, and as she turned back to check on her family, she saw a tipi on the bridge. She recognized those inside and couldn't leave them, not when she knew that her prayers would help, so she backtracked through the teargas, towards the invasion, and stuck her head inside the door. "Hey, do you guys want to smoke my chanupa and pray?" And that's what she did, with the Indigenous Youth Council, as the US government tore down another tipi filled with women, children, elders and medicine people. Home of the brave indeed.

Creator, thank you for this life,

I am so humbled by all that you provide in this abundant universe.

Thank you for this way to pray,

and for helping my heart to resonate with it so deeply.

Please help me to share this connection with my brothers and sisters,

to inspire them to begin their own journey of transformation,

and to provide guidance as they face the lessons I've already learned.

Please help me with humility,

I'm grateful for the gifts you've given me,

but I know that I must continue to exercise them everyday.

It's hard to stay humble in a world built on ego,

but your constant reminders of the wisdom to be gained by others,

help me to remember my walk on this path,

and that I have so much farther to travel.

Thank you for keeping my heart in such a way

that I have no fear of this material world,

that I feel connected to the universe

as it allows me to move across Unci Maka unencumbered,

without doubt that she will take care of me,

and with the perseverance to take care of her along the way.

Please help to keep all of the water protectors walking in a good way,

with prayer in their hearts as they move along their onward journeys.

And wherever they may be across our Turtle Island,

please help to keep them safe, warm, and nourished,

as they receive the healing that we all dearly need,

so that we may continue to do the work that you've asked of us.

We are so lucky to be alive

at this critical point of our planet's evolution,

and grateful to carry this responsibility through her metamorphosis,

it is an honor, not a burden,

and once again I pray that my brothers and sisters

will wake up in time to join us.

Aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

*******

Well, book's done, guess it's probably time to move on. The first book I mean, I can probably still drag this one out a bit longer. I knew that I wanted to have a ceremony when it was done, a way to move past this step of the journey and into the next. Figured it woulda been cool to do it at Sun Dance, but obviously there's some better plan in mind, so let's get to it.

One last visit to the book of faces before I disappear again, my brother Ziggy always on my mind, but he's still a few weeks away from the dakotas. Folks at the enbridge camp still need a chef, west coast protectors want my rolling pen, there's some kind of youth gathering up north, east coast always calling me, and texas camp recruiting, and then in about two minutes it became apparent what direction I was heading.

My ride was driving through pierre tomorrow, luckily it doesn't take me long to pack, and it gave me the evening to spend with Unci as I patched up my cords for the road. And right on schedule, which happens a lot when you don't have a plan, Carolyn's phone rang and I ran outside to help my family find a parking space, turns out it takes a little talent to situate a bus full of tipis and excited kids. Yes. I'm rolling out with the Erenbrooks, what could possibly be any better than this? Oh yeah, how about if Unci decides to hop in as we head north for our first return to Standing Rock? Epic.

It was almost the equinox, an actual holiday based on a real calendar, not the capital buildings, and also the one year anniversary of the Erenbrooks' initial debut as water protectors. They thought it would be fitting to celebrate at home, Unci wanted to check out this youth gathering thing nearby, and I couldn't imagine a better place to turn the page on my next chapter. So, road trip it is.

They were traveling with their pickup truck too, I guess it's a little much to pack up the bus every time you head to town, so I volunteered to drive it so that they could manifest their pilgrimage to destiny, as a family. A beat up truck, a trailer overflowing with gear, a "No uranium mining in the Black Hills" sign on the back, a long haired hippie and an indian grandma on the way to Standing Rock - nope, not conspicuous at all. Especially when we're caravanning with a tipi bus that only goes forty-five. And we're all on the government's watch list. Well, might as well keep them entertained while they tune-in.

First stop, let's see what this whole gathering deal is about, Unci's the closest we have to a teenager, but it's always nice to cross paths with water protectors of any age. Of course, as we roll into a riverside field of tents and tipis, we're greeted by the most rugged of security officers - Smokey welcomes us back to camp. What? This is no youth summit, although I'm sure the cool kids congregated somewhere outside of the old folks tipi, no, this gathering was for us.

We just caravanned with nine water protectors, each with our own heartstring pulling in this direction, as our personal paths coalesced into one, and the next thing we know, we're setting up camp at an unpublicized water protector healing gathering. This is such a cool life. And we weren't the only ones living it, a bunch of the couple hundred attendees also showed up unaware of why they were here, wait, was this a vacation? (inside joke, sorry) Yet again humbled by the intricacies woven into my path, and reassured that I am in exactly the right place, and we still had five more days of reunion and celebration as we stumbled in on opening night. Holy Buffalo.

*******

Yeah, Buffalo stew and frybread, always, plus a few other round meals a day, completely free of charge, although you can do dishes if even that is beyond your budget. Not too many Rosebuddies, Smokey and a camp from White Clay were across the field, and there was a couple who knew the Erenbrooks from the fall, though we slightly remembered crossing paths as their way out had coincided with my way in. And then there was a fellow I had only met once, Patrick, the guy who had set up the MASH tent before Henry took it over and invited me to set up shop. Needless to say, we hit it off pretty quick.

He'd been spending time with the indigenous communities of california since camp, before that, he had been a city boy from LA, but after you've been through what we have, it's a little tough to go back to sleep with all that noise. He'd learned that pre-colonialism, california was home to over 200 distinct languages, two hundred vernaculars rooted with the Redwoods, two hundred ways to pray, at least until we homogenized it with the king's english. But, I thought that we were free from england, that we performed our patriotic duty and stood up to the oppressive regime that only wanted our money at all costs, guess I'm just another misinformed american or something.

He also enlightened us to other omissions from the his-story books, like the part about there being zero record of any in-fighting between the tribes of california. Pretty remarkable considering the language barriers, although, I guess a real language without the obstruction of abstraction would be a bit easier to interpret. When a language has evolved with the Earth around it, you can literally just look to the land for a translation, it's only when you make up silly ideas like ownership and religion, that the native tongue has a hard time understanding what in the world you're talking about. An indigenous language symbolized by pictures of the landscape and the characters, connects the reader's synesthetic vibration perception to the physical location of the rooted words, not some abstract empty space between two closed off ears.

But in our english textbook, it says that the natives were savages, brutal heathens, violent pagans, cannibals, and probably liberals too. Human nature is naturally bent towards killing, and the only way to combat our terrible tendencies is to murder, maim, and imprison any who think otherwise. Wild humans are a horrible people that we had an american duty to eradicate, so that we could build the greatest civilization in his-story. But actually, it turns out that the indians are pretty cool, so why on Earth would our government regulated handbooks on being a proud american, lead us to believe such a vastly skewed version of our nation's past? You're kidding, right?

The reports of the very first european explorers of the 'new' world, were of only the most open arms of a peaceful people. It was the next wave across the atlantic, those that were already openly armed, that provided the photoshopped sketches that compelled a fledgling nation to fulfill their moral obligation of mass murder. Not all of us could hand out a blanket sentence though, so we just sent them packing, at gunpoint, through the snow, without food, but they were so glad to be alive that there were tears of joy all along the trail. They headed out west with stars in their eyes, and once they escaped the city lights of the Virginia Company, they set up camp and regained their bearings, but they built their cook shack in someone else's kitchen.

Back before the Virginia Company settled on america, when massive trees still filled the forests of the earliest oceanside evolution, there was plenty of this world to go around. Just enough, in fact. The coastal ecosystem was far more vibrant than virginia beach, and there was always enough food for weary travelers to stop in for dinner. I bet we probably just killed most of that first bunch, but any that escaped were certainly taken in by their inland neighbors. We weren't gonna stop at the privatized beach of course, and as we advanced into the island, we successfully displaced village after village as we flooded them with white power. As the westward bound genocide continued, entire tribes were forced to relocate, but they found themselves overpopulated in a new neighborhood that was already at capacity.

It's easy to be friendly when you've only ever known a life of complete abundance, but once your family is threatened by gunpoint on one side, and starvation on the other, it's a bit tougher to keep up neighborly relations all the time. And it's only instinct to protect your family, plenty of advice from the animal kingdom on this one, somebody's gotta go. They may have even tried to work it out diplomatically, with a series of riddles or physical challenges or something, but eventually, yeah, the bigger tribe pushed the smaller one around. This one displaced that one, who displaced another, and enemies were created. There was now 'us' and 'them' among the 'them' of US history, and we were happy to document the savage behavior of the natives we had starved out.

Oh, they're horrible, don't feel bad about killing these animals, plus, if you don't, they might scalp you. No. The first american scalping was done by a white man as he removed a native's samsonite strength, it was already a practice in europe when we introduced it here, and we offered a cash reward for this proof of indian murder. We started this war against the peaceful inhabitants of the Garden of Eden, period.

*******

Nice story, but the indigenous americans were supreme warriors, it really was the home of the brave, even I've bragged about their superiority in battle as they defeated the offense of uniting states. World class warriors, and world class horsemen, they even had raiding parties to steal Horses from enemy tribes. But, Horses aren't native americans, they were brought here by the invaders, so how could these raiding parties have been a thing before us? And how could the indians be better than us at bareback riding, if they're new to the Horse race?

Ah, I see, it's the same way that they are better battlers than we are too, even without a long history of duking it out. They were simply better than us. It's what I've been saying all along. The native americans were still a part of the world around them, still a part of nature, still a part of evolution, at the very front of it, in fact. They were undeniably more evolutionarily advanced than the backwards fall of european descent.

It's hard to grow fat and lazy when your food's not grown in a cage, you have to actually work for it, you have to be fast, and silent, and with an Eagle's eye. (8x that of a colonized human) No boomsticks to sit back and relax on the hunt, only convivial tools that are powered by your own strength. And when everything you eat is also at the peak of its evolution and tuned to the land, it connects you to Unci Maka in a real way. I've eaten raw wild Buffalo heart and it gave me a twenty minute burst of intense clarity and precision, this is not some made up fantasy of a romanticized way of life, this is the way humans were designed to operate.

And if you couple the physical prowess of indian superiority, with their intricate understanding of the land they were defending, yeah, I'd imagine they probably were pretty unstoppable on the battlefield. And it starts to explain why we had no choice but to resort to massacre and murder, especially if they started praying too. Or even better yet, we could just write up a treaty, a magic piece of paper written in a language that makes no sense to them, or the rest of life on Earth, but that doesn't matter, we're not gonna do any of the things we say anyway.

*******

And that's our legacy, a lying cheating double crossing people with no honor system, but even if I'm to assume that everything I've been taught about the legitimacy of our constitution is pure fabrication, do you actually expect me to believe that the indians didn't fight with each other? They lived in nature, and sometimes animals in nature get in fights. Passions rise and moments get heated, they were only human, after all, and it must have happened often enough that the Lakota even had an official policy upon death. If you murder someone from another village, then it is your duty to leave your own life at home and replace the son that you took away, you move to the other village and the mother of your victim adopts you, as you repay your vibrational debt to society. Talk about a rehabilitation program.

And as far as war, no mother wants to send her son off to battle, which is convenient for the matriarchal societies who would much prefer to talk it out. Without the patriarch's power struggle of ownership and ego, the grandma in charge would rather invite any old stranger in for dinner before she'd ever call for an attack. Bad stuff still happens though, and she'd be prepared for self defense, but just remember that her strongest warriors knew that a love tap on the shoulder was far more powerful than a drop of bloodshed, and immediately settled any dispute on the spot.

Somehow that sounds way better than our current conflict abroad, you know, the one that's been going on longer than a lot of the soldiers have even been alive. But history's written by the victors, and if we keep at that one long enough, maybe we'll eventually win. Plus, if we can manage to eradicate any hope for their survival in the process, we might even be able to convince america that they attacked us first. They didn't. We started it. For oil. We are the warlords. We are the bullies. We are the bad guys. We are still invading distant lands for money. Mass murdering for money. And once the war machine runs out of foreigners to execute, do you really think your privileged life is going to be more important, than money?

*******

Speaking of money and oil and governments and indians and all that stuff, which seems to be a common rhetoric among my motifs, next thing I know I'm being recruited for another frontline. A few protectors from a Line 3 camp stopped by ours as we were setting up, and eager eyes widened once they found out about my newly found free agent status. I'd known about a camp on Ojibwe land, the White Earth reservation, whose indian name coincidentally means, 'where there is an abundance of white clay.' I'd considered going there after Standing Rock, and I knew several people who were there now. It was a cultural learning camp, a prayer camp, and everybody got to build their own wigwam. That sounds cool, I'm definitely in the market for some action, and they've got an extra seat for me. What better place to recruit than a gathering of the dedicated, tell me more, like is so-and-so still there? "Well, actually, we're at a different camp than that one."

There were three camps in close proximity to the construction zone, friendly, but not working in conjunction like the last three I was at. This was an action camp. Still cool, I specifically remember saying that I was down to get dirty, so what do you got going on? They were currently halting excavation as often as they could, which meant locking down, which meant getting arrested. For those that aren't hip to the slang of the youngsters, I'll give you a lowdown of a lockdown.

You sneak into the construction area, either at night, or you can simply swarm an active machine, as the indifferent working-class operator is happy to take the rest of the day off. Then you wrap your arms through a vital piece of the excavator's componentry, stick them through either end of your 'lockdown,' which is essentially a large metal pipe segment, and you cuff your hands together on the inside. So now when the Tigercops show up because you've stopped their illegal digging, they can't just shoot you and take you to jail, now they have to get a crew to cut through this big steel pipe before they can uncuff you, to cuff you.

And maybe they don't even hurt you in the process. Takes three or four hours to get you free before they can lock you up, no permanent damage is done, and although they're back in business, you did cost them a half a day of progress. And if you can manage to get someone to lockdown everyday, it ends up being quite substantial. Sure, they end up increasing their unlicensed security details, but that's exactly how Standing Rock started. And more guards means more money they had to spend, and the longer the project is drawn out, and the more likely that investors will back out as more protectors join the fight, and our mother gets to live another day as we pull the plug on the machine.

So, yeah, I'm pretty down to do some covert-ops, can't keep preaching revolution and not living it, plus, it'll make for a good book someday. It's about time, which I'll have plenty of while I'm sitting in jail, and I'm sure you guy's have a lodge, right? "Nope." Woah, what?

It wasn't a prayer camp. It was an action camp. They had several strong activists who were all about action, but they were also atheists, and they didn't want to run them off with a focus on prayer. I see. I get it, I've been there too, and if I'd been told to, "just pray on it," I'd have walked out the door as well. You don't have to believe in God to feel a deep need to protect our planet at all costs, in fact, it's those acting in the name of God who are destroying most of it. I'm not knocking anyone for their beliefs or disbeliefs, especially if they're still standing up for what they do believe in, and especially if it's protecting the Earth. You don't have to pray to understand the scientific importance of preserving the world we depend on for survival, you actually have to be an idiot not too.

I could be at a camp with nonbelievers and be just fine, I'm a science man too, but it'd be tough not to have a lodge, especially knowing the physical benefits of melting off the teargas and clearing clogged lungs. I can lock arms with an atheist as we stop the machine, they are just as much my brother as anyone else. We can talk quasars and quarks and evolution and revolution, and I can not preach, but I cannot not pray. I'm all about doing some crazy stuff to stop the government tyranny, but if you expect me to go out there without prayer in my heart, now that's just plain crazy. And I'm gonna be singing songs the whole while. Four hours is a long time to have the ears of a few on the other side, I'm sure the cutting equipment is pretty loud, but my heart vibrations are quite strong these days.

Again, no judgements at all, in fact, I think camps like this are probably vital until the masses wake up, we need every bit of help we can get, but I can't personally be at a camp like that. I need to pray. So it's cool that there are different camps fighting the same fight in different ways, not in competition, but in corroboration. Praying's not for everyone, getting arrested's not for everyone, so now we have something for everyone. The only downside is that I was somewhat an atheist before Standing Rock, and many others found their initial connection there as well, so to me, the spiritual waking up of a resistance camp is one of the most vital components of the whole thing. But that's me. You do you. I will help you in any way that I can, but I can't go with you. I can pray for you though.

*******

And I can fix your car. Maybe. While we were talking about camp, one of their homies came by to announce that the car wouldn't start, they were clueless, so I hopped up and got to work. A few of us poked around a bit, Smokey included, and then we jumped the solenoid as a temporary solution, just had to start it with a screwdriver. And an hour later I found myself under Patrick's truck fixing a ball joint, had a ball, and a joint. Not really, but I did charge him a cigarette, freaking capitalist, but I'm just stoked to have a new camp career outside of the kitchen.

I guess fixing cars is a bit counterproductive in the particular resistance movement I'm a part of, but so was cooking on propane. Now, healing the water, that sounds more like it. Early in the morning there was a riverside water healing ceremony, we gathered around, each offering Tobacco and praying with the liquid of life, and then sang a few water songs. "Unci maka yuonihan po, mni wiconi wakan yelo" Then back to bed, and an hour later on my way to get coffee, I stopped by the scientific counterpart for this morning's wet vibrations.

The Lovewater truck had been at Standing Rock, but in Oceti, and possibly before it all turned into ice. This vehicle was amazing. We need a million more of these off the road. It was a big delivery truck, like a bread truck, but instead of gluten globs clogging up the highway, this thing purified water. And not your mama's brita filter either. He had the technical jargon down to a science, and the gist of it is that our water is pretty darn polluted. By a wide array of toxicants. There's of course the easy stuff to pronounce, like oil and lead and uranium and fertilized farm feces, but there's also enough big words in there to cause a nuclear reaction. So a one-size-fits-all filtration system, won't cut this hard of water, even if it's bigger than a bread truck. Each pollutant requires a unique process in order to remove it from our life, so every time he arrives at a new water source, like the Cannonball River, he performs a detailed analysis of just how dirty they've been pissing upstream. Inside the truck is a fully customizable array of cleansing components, really heady science kinda stuff, and after he's assembled the appropriate combination for our particular particulates, the water flows through and is available at spigots and bottle fillers on the side of the truck.

So cool. Even tasted like water. It kept our entire gathering hydrated, and provided a perfect locale for water cooler conversations. Like, about how we need more of these, one at every camp for sure, but probably one in every town. Doesn't even have to be on a truck. Filter stations along dirty rivers, built onto ocean liners, or even a facility housed on the massive garbage patch floating in the pacific, not just providing water for us, but healing the trauma we've circulated into all of life. Of course, we all know why that plan would never work, at least not in the current mainstream.

I grew up in the woods, we played in the creek every summer afternoon, but good God don't drink that water. We were upstream from the super toxic lake energized by the surrounding 'duke power state park,' and far enough downhill from 'dupont state forest,' but our state of emergency response was still owned by agriculture, even if they did have to pay the farmhands nowadays.

I was taught not to drink the water, because animals were pooping in it. I of course imagined Deer and Squirrels and Jackalopes, but I'm guessing they probably meant the claustrophobic confines of cattle ranches. It takes a lot of water to raise a Cow, and a lot of work, so it's super convenient to slap a feedlot right next to a merry little stream. The herd get cool fresh water, much more natural than some stagnant watering trough full of Mosquitos, and I've even seen where the trickle was completely rerouted to provide maximum cash flow. I've also seen cornfed Cows emptying their liquid bowels, just feet upstream from where your ribeye took its last drink. Well done fellas.

The thirsty stampedes stomp out all of the creekside grass as they crowd around the fecal fountain, or in it, seems that the cages of this desolate wasteland offer little reprieve from the beating sun. It then bakes a field of Cow pies, that even without doorstep delivery, still get washed away from this concentrated camp.

You'd think that animals would instinctively know not to unload where they drink, and I'm guessing that the ones we allowed to keep their instincts, do, but they also have the entirety of nature to evacuate, all two or three acres that are left. Plus, animals that live a natural life, excrete a naturally nontoxic byproduct, it is actually quite critical to the circular flow of nutrition.

It's also polite to offer a little privacy, the natural world doesn't overcrowd the same stall, they spread out their load of manure all on their own. It's then far more absorbable by the ecological waste management services, a much more moderate portion for the microbiology, an easier breath for the treetop canopy, and the water is free to runoff with it's own diluted dreams of life. And then, when you consider the nomadic nomenclature of the traveling herds, like the ones I heard about leading the parade, it does seem a bit improbable that they'd be able to back up the plumbing of their planetary potty.

But yeah, if we artificially inflate their population and their stomachs, and lock them into a shithole apartment with close neighbors, the overwhelming stench of their warming methane floats skyward like the combined vibrations of the lodge, while the downstream disease keeps the threat of dysentery alive. Oh, and carbon emissions may be a bad thing, but methane is about twenty times as destructive to the atmosphere, and pretty much exclusively provided by the cattle industry as it is the second largest contributor to climate change. Plus all the exhausted truck drivers required to bring the farm to table, and the carbon capturing ecosystems that were plowed under to contain all the cornfed beef, and the corn. But it's still not the most toxic byproduct of all, the prolific poison that's even more widespread than polluted water, the absolute worst contamination of corporate america, yup, dolla dolla bills ya'll.

*******

Oh no, your naturally abundant water cycle, the one that literally just springs up out of the ground, is somehow unsafe to drink anymore? Well, no worries, we'll be happy to lead pipe it directly to the comfort of your owned home. Oh no, our lead pipes are even more poisonous than the previously poopy water outside? We still have no worries, here's a case of poop-proof plastic bottles that we purified out of your local lead-based sewage system. Plus, you're shopping local.

It's just good business, really. Choose a product with high demand and limited supply, check. Eliminate competition, check. Outsource materials, check. Create global craze over the availability of your product as you artificially regulate the market and raise prices according to maximum profits, yup. Cities are already running out of hydration, even the flooded streets of miami are in hot water as the salt of the sea is spilling over into the mainstream, but don't worry about them, nestle assured us that water's not a fundamental human right, so they should be just fine without it.

It does seem coincidentally convenient for water sales, that all of the energy conglomerates are pretty blatantly poisoning what's left of the priceless water of Unci Maka. Duke Power's Poisoned Pond, Fukushima's Fusion Flood, BP's Birds of Petroleum, Exxon's Exit from Eden, Keystone's Killer 400,000 gallon oil pipeline spill of 2017 and DAPL's three foot pipe through the largest river in america. Plus the Mountain Valley Pipeline and Atlantic Coast Pipeline who cross thousands headwaters, those that supply the formerly clean drinking water of the virginias and the carolinas, yet the only people who seem to notice are the beer brewing industrialists. If only humans were more addicted to water than oil.

So looks like we got our work cut out for us, protecting the water and all, and this Lovewater guy is leading the way, which kinda makes me hesitant to even print the name Lovewater. I feel like I should though, it could help to spread his technology to those that need it the most, though I'd imagine nestle's lobbyists could afford to put a gag order out on him. But in the end, I know that we're water protectors, we don't go run and hide, we face the evil head on, and we know that they're already watching us. "Quick, put on this mask."

*******

No, but for real, there's a drone up there, put on this mask. So we all tied bandanas across our faces, looked up to the drone, and smiled. It was our drone, no dapl allowed, and good thing our identities were hidden, because we all just broke the law. Since the last time I was in north dakota, the state passed legislation that wearing a face covering in public, was illegal. In a state that gets forty below. They told us at the facially recognized frontline that a mask was a clear sign of aggression, and now they've made it official. Just like the official law they passed relieving any liability from a murderist who drives into a crowd of protesters. Especially if they're wearing masks. Still no law condemning illegal installation of leaky oil infrastructure, but that's probably just hung up in the pipeline somewhere.

We assumed they were using facial recognition at camp, only made sense, we could see them filming us at the bridge and there were drones all over the place, and they flew a surveillance helicopter super low over our camp at all times. I still can't hear the whir of a chopper overhead and not cringe. I seem like a paranoid conspiracy nut around normal people, always being elusive and thinking that being an outspoken member of a revolution against the government would cause them to care about what I was up to, even I start thinking I'm going crazy sometimes, at least until 'The Intercept' published the leaked documents from TigerSwan that back it all up.

Photos from the helicopter (Where can I pick up my framed souvenir copy?), hacked facebooks, facial recognition, and infiltrators into our "jihadist religious movement," definitely fodder for some hollywood mumbo jumbo, but this is based on a true story. I'd read these articles while I was at the farm, one of the few sources of news that Benjamin believes, hard not to with skynet photos of our family, and it was great to have some confirmation as I was editing my version of the story. And now, the author of the expose, was here to speak with the protectors that he was out to protect.

It was pouring rain, a little cold for early september, and about thirty of us were huddled under a ten foot pop-up as we listened to him speak. Got a bit of unpublished dirt, but that's how it'll remain for now, it was purely off the record. The Erenbrooks wanted to lure him back to the bus for tea, and I wanted to pick his brain about publishing works that speak out about government mercenaries, so when I saw him walking back from his car, I ambushed him.

He hadn't been at camp, he wasn't a water protector, and he was not used to the wind and weather of these plains - he was cold. So it didn't take much more than the promise of some hot tea and an escape from the wind to get him warmed up to the idea. We hung out for an hour or so, got more top secret stuff out of him, and got the vibe that he was most definitely a journalist, not a water protector, but still appalled at the allowance of such dastardly deeds. I asked if he had any hesitation or concern about openly outing a nefarious organization who has no regard for acting within the law, and he seemed like he'd never even considered it. Never crossed his mind. Not sure if his confidence reassured me, or his naivety only drove me further into paranoia, though I did have to remember that he had not been shot at as a targeted media member on the bridge. Plus, only people who are already aware of the bad stuff are even reading the Intercept, it's only fueling the presumed paranoia of the outcasts. Wait, could he be an infiltrator?

He was certainly not in possession of the unfakable water protector vibration, but nor did he claim to be. And he did leak a bunch of stuff about the opposition, certainly stuff they don't want out, unless it would be more valuable for them to have our suspicions confirmed, and to be casting accusatory glances at any protector we suspected of infiltration. It might even be more valuable to insert deunification through psychological tactics, than to send in an infiltrator that could be outed or turned.

I know this all sounds like some crazy talk, and I actually think he was legit, which means there's one of two options: One, he's a deep cover spy for the bad guys and now has a blueprint of the bus and a link to my book. Or two, an oil company hired the north dakota governor, local police, and the national guard, then put them under the command of an unlicensed private security firm composed of former military operatives, who broke law after law as they trampled civil and human rights in an attempt to tear apart our peaceful movement of prayer from the inside. So, which of these was the crazy sounding one again?

*******

And while we're on the topic of diabolical government agencies working for private corporations, I might as well get the FBI on my trail too. Red Fawn's sister spoke as well, she had also read a letter from Red back at the Unity Concert, because the water protecting activist was still in jail. "Free Red Fawn" can be seen on shirts all over, much like the political prisoner Leonard Peltier that you've probably never heard of.

He was an AIM member who received a double life sentence for a crime that he allegedly witnessed, a shootout with FBI agents who were inexplicable outside of their jurisdiction, as they tracked down a pair of missing cowboy boots. The racist jury was handpicked by the FBI, they allowed perjured testimony and hid evidence, produced a fraudulent murder weapon, and even the prosecuting attorney has come out and asked for clemency for the eighty year old victim of falsified coercion. He's serving a life sentence, because he was an outspoken leader of a movement against colonial oppression, and they will stop at nothing to silence those who give their voice to the people of our planet.

And Red Fawn was an outspoken leader of our current movement, until she was arrested at the frontline, for allegedly discharging a firearm. But I thought you guys were peaceful and unarmed. Of course, they never recovered said firearm, the one that was supposedly fired by an experienced activist as the police were arresting her, nor is it seen in the video documentation captured from our side. But still she sits incarcerated for over a year with no conviction, away from her family, away from the movement, away from any ability to continue the fight against her captors. But she is strong, her heart is pure, and her words can still inspire, even postmarked from behind bars. And that was then, in september, but I've received an updated story since.

Red Fawn is a strong warrior for our movement, but she is also a person, and like so many people at Standing Rock, she got snagged. She had a camp boyfriend, I don't know the love-to-lust ratio, but I know that he has since been outed as an FBI informant. I know that there actually was a gun at camp, in his possession, in his camper, and when he told his FBI handler that it was his gun, he was told to forget all about it. He still called Red Fawn in jail and kept up the charade, milking any info he could, and who knows, he might have actually been in love. But I feel so bad for her, not only locked away from where she feels she is needed the most, but to now know that she was backstabbed by the one she held closest.

I've also since learned of yet another uncanny coincidence, an event that I had presumed to be isolated, until I learned that it took place on the very same day as Red Fawn's arrest. Our camp had a strict and posted policy of no drugs, alcohol, or firearms - this is a prayer camp - and while our security didn't offer complimentary cavity inspections, we did poke around if someone seemed out of place. An elder was drinking coffee and smoking cigs with the boys at the post, and when a nervous fella pulled in, he noticed the end of an assault rifle sticking up behind the seat as he drove off in a hurry. They caught up to him, and as he pulled the weapon, he was promptly surrounded by empty arms and subdued until authorities could arrive on the scene. At which point he was not only not arrested, but the young protector that had disarmed him, was. And strangely enough, the truck was registered to Energy Transfer Partners, the parent company of the Dakota Access Pipeline, what a coincidence.

He was headed to the frontline. He was posing as a water protector. If he had made it to the barricade and fired off a few rounds before retreating under the bridge he crawled out of, and with the FBI planted gun to corroborate his attack, they would have had ample justification to mow us all down with the arsenal of assault and pepper shakers they kept aimed at our heads. They would have murdered us all, and got away with it, just like they're doing in Syria right now.

These are the type of tactics we're up against, and they're only going to get worse. Standing Rock was a training ground for them to test the limits of what they can actually get away with on US soil, and it wasn't pretty. The government knows that they are the most malevolent entity around, and they know that we know it, and they will stop at nothing to stop us. We need your help. Please. The future of everything depends on it.

*******

And the future depends on the kids. Like, these kids. These five kids that I am so honored to know, and especially at such an important time of their transformation into full grown water protectors. Even the unspoken youngest has more wherewithal than most eight year olds, and the oldest, more than most adults I know, and that's not at all an exaggeration. I want to be these kids when I grow up. And when they grow up... I can't even imagine.

They've already been to the frontline, they've already stood their ground against the system, they've already lived a life outside of it and know that there's nothing in it for them. They've already seen through the veil, they understand their privilege and the accompanying oppression seen on the other end. They know the importance of clean food, and clean water, a clear heart with prayer and a strong voice with song. I really do want to have their voice when I grow up.

They are still kids though, they still bicker and get on each other's nerves, they do all live in the same bus or tipi after all, but the fluidity in which they handle their disputes is inspiring. They are not punished into solitude, they are listened to as they are encouraged to think, and I couldn't imagine a more beautiful world than one led by the passion for life that they all share.

They are fully aware of their footprint on this Earth, as they should be with their homemade beaded moccasins, but they are also aware of the blindfolded destructions of the rest of their species. They understand that the damage is inconceivable, but not irreparable, and they know that the responsibility lies on them to return our planet to a place of equilibrium. They understand that this is the reality of their future, that this is the inheritance we're passing on to their generation, that the carelessness of our kind has destroyed any hope for our children to experience an ordinary life. And it only empowers them to become extraordinary, they must, they have no other choice if they wish to survive the coming days.

They realize that we are already living within a global extinction event, that we've chosen to deny not only our role in its creation, but it's existence altogether. They can see that only the strong hearted will survive, those connected to the land, those with the fundamental skills to physically survive in a world who is cleansing herself of disease. They know that it will not be easy, but they are ready, they are prepared to be the leaders of the new age of humankind, and they can see the beauty that will emerge through the other side of this transformation,

They are the most incredible family that one could possibly ever in a million years even begin to imagine. They are my family. And I love each and every one of them from the absolute center of my heart.

*******

But that's not gonna stop me from arresting them. Oh yeah, I'm kindofa undercover dapl agent too, and while most kids play video games, we play water protectors vs dapl. "Get off the bridge, for your own safety." Then we took off to the fire with a drum and a few tunes, people go crazy when they hear their adolescent vibes singing these indian songs, but who's that old dude trying to sing with them? And pipe down, we're trying to watch a movie over here.

Tonight's astral projections were a few episodes of a series on activism called "Trouble." The first was about some crazy radical extremists who faced off with their corrupt government, maybe we should take notes, they even stood their ground through a forty below lightening blizzard. Oh yeah, we're kinda famous. The next was about non-violent direct actions at a bunch of different resistance points. Not as much a documentary, as a tutorial. Lockdowns, tree sits, security culture, detecting infiltration and inside tips on staying outside. Yeah, we even have how-to videos. C'mon, we're making this pretty easy for you.

The next day, the training continued. And the healing. We took a group plant walk as we discovered the incredible diversity of medicines growing just in our close vicinity. Some food too, but we just ate indian tacos, so medicine it is:

-Sage grows everywhere out here. We were shown several different kinds within just a few feet, as we found out that it's not just a strong spiritual medicine, it's antibacterial too. Just light a smudge stick and fill a room with thick smoke and save yourself from the toxic bath of lysol, yet another native tradition that seems to have scientific rooting in a healthy lifestyle.

-Mullein, but you already know all about that one.

-Plantain, not the fruit, but a completely unrelated plant that's native to our continent, and it's not only a tasty and nutritious food, it's a cure for just about everything. It's antimicrobial and anti-inflammatory; it treats colds, fevers, ulcers, sore throat and digestive issues; it helps with acne, boils, psoriasis, eczema, dandruff, sunburn and third degree burns; it can be used directly in open wounds to stop the bleeding, remove infection and speed tissue repair; and it's anti-venom properties relieve the symptoms of poison ivy, bee stings, bug bites, oh, and snakebites too, I should probably try to remember that one. Geez, how could a pharmaceutical company ever survive when there's a cure for everything just growing in the undeveloped world? Oh yeah, I get it now.

*******

They might be right though, maybe plants can't heal everything, they can get most physical ailments for sure, but some pains hit a deeper nerve that vibrates to the bone. Or somewhere even deeper than that. Some of us are messed up. I thought my whole life got flipped upside down, but I was lucky, and through my perseverance on this path, I've seen that my life only got flipped rightside up. I didn't even get shot, maybe shot at, and teargassed a few times, but the real trauma was having my blinders ripped away in one swift band-aid swipe. But that pain fades as the would heals.

Then I was fortunate enough to leave camp with twelve of the strongest water protectors ever, Rosebuddies, and that alone set me out on an upward trajectory. Rosebud was tight, a true family, and a focus on prayer. Oceti was the big city, so you may have interacted with a lot of people, and everyone at camp was family, but it was far more difficult to connect on a deep level with more than just a handful of besties. I have about sixty brothers and sisters who would come to the rescue in a heartbeat if I needed them, and I know that is simply not the case for many who feel stranded, alone in a world that only they can see through, forced to assimilate, or just go crazy with no reassurance that they're not.

And writing helped beyond words. I created the space to process what I'd been through, how I now felt about the world, about life, what it all meant, and what I could do about it. Plus, writing is what I was doing about it, I felt a tremendous weight to share my experience in a good way, which I couldn't do in person, I couldn't even talk to people about normal stuff, let alone why they should care about what I feel to be the most important thing ever. And writing gave me that voice, even in person, once I'd processed it all, I could now speak on what it all meant to me.

Then the farm marked a return to ceremony, to pray in this way, and a return to water protectors. I sweat forty-five days in a row, while I still meet protectors who haven't sweat since camp. Or that haven't spent time with other protectors at all, the only ones in the world that can understand what we went through, the only ones that share this unspoken connection, the only ones that we can truly let our guard down around as we remember our shared experiences. There is such a massive weight lifted off of your heart as you reconnect with the family that you survived this thing with. And some of us haven't had that.

Then I was at Sun Dance, another return to the closest of family, and at a sacred space of prayer as I also returned to the Lakota way of life, a way that opened my heart and made me who I am. And I've gotten to see water protectors all over, then the ceremony at the concert brought another wave of healing as the gratitude of others washed away any doubt of my path. I've not been confused, I've not been lost, I may have been damaged, but I knew without a doubt that I was at exactly the right place, and doing all that I could to continue the most important job of my life.

Plus, I was just fine before camp, that may have made my transition more drastic, but it also meant that I only had to heal from one life changing event. Many of my brothers and sisters had been traumatized before camp, PTSD from actual warzones, lifetimes of abuse and worse, being an indian in america, and other real stuff that didn't disappear as the snow melted. So as messed up as I felt, or still do, it breaks my heart to understand the suffering that my family has been through, and still is. These are the strongest people I've ever met, and vital members of our most important task force, so to think of them being lost in the world that we've dedicated out lives to saving, it pains me greatly.

But, luckily, it's time for another water protector healing ceremony. We did the whole circle around thing, many more protectors this time, and the facilitators walked around and saged us off as we prayed. Then we repeated the procession of hugs like last time, but this was a ceremony between protectors, among family, not a spectacle to be onlooked upon, this was just for us. Hugs were not rushed. Hearts were opened. Tears were shared. Familiar faces received special smirks, but there were no strangers among us. No one felt awkward as they cried, and no one wondered why they were. No one had to ask what it was like out there. No one had to defend their disappearance. No one questioned our way to pray. No one had to say anything at all. We moved sunwise around the circle and hugged on the heart side, true embraces that weren't just going through the motions, they were genuine exchanges of life energy, as we poured love out as fast as we could take it in.

At camp, Wendy had taught me that the seven second mark of a hug is when endorphins, serotonin and oxytocin are released, and a real-life heart connection is created. I created over a hundred that day. And I had considered not even participating, I'd already been there and done that, I was fine, healed, of course Smokey wasn't going either, so I could stay back with him. Then one of the kids insisted, couldn't say no to that, and so glad I didn't. I didn't even realize how bad I needed it. How bad I needed to be here. I'd been traveling in a good way, with prayer and family, obviously on the right path, following my heart with every step, which brought me to this circle of unified prayer vibration, this place of healing, this place of remembering, this place of returning to a space in my heart that forever changed my life. I was finally ready to go home.

### IV. The Return

Thousands stood strong, for billions at home,

Under wide open skies, they were never alone,

No bad guys to blame, only those not awake,

The morning has come, how do you like your steak?

*******

What an incredible journey this last year has been. Even before Standing Rock really. This time a year ago, I was wrapping up production on the biggest project of my career, the one closest to my heart, the one I had given up everything else to pursue. Then I found myself amid the hustle of LA, chasing fame and fortune, then San Fran, Houston, Austin, Denver, and in Boulder I discovered some hippies trying to make change, not dollars. From that point on, my heart was pulled in only one direction, didn't much matter what my head thought about it.

I arrived at camp and immediately felt a sensation I'd never known, this was home, in a way that even home had never felt. I found family, I found love, I found purpose, I found God, I found steaks buried in the snow. My entire life had been leading to this, preparing me for the road ahead as I embarked into my future. My destiny. And the rest is history, or mystory, whatever, all I know is that it felt really cool to be driving past Echo 3 as we pulled back into Rosebud camp.

The first time I showed up here was right after the first blizzard of the season, everything was whiter than the populous of bismark. The people here before me hadn't known what to expect, how could they? They prepared the best they could, but three feet of sideways snow can be a bit overwhelming, believe me. Then, when the winter was fading as we packed our bags under threat of invasion, the ice was just barely starting to thaw. Once again, we were witness to liquid water, but most of camp was still under several feet of snow, there were even cars completely buried in the stuff. I had not known this place in any other condition, though the camp had been operating throughout the summer months, ever since the previous spring's last snowfall. I'd never seen grass in Standing Rock, as all of my traveling companions had, which made this surreal experience all the more incredible.

*******

Waves of joy at moments remembered,

waves of sadness as we recall its fate.

Such a fortress of strength that kept us all safe,

yet we were unable to save it as we fled its destruction.

This sacred space has been revisited before us,

prayer ties hang as reminders of transformation,

Unci Maka evolves through adversity right before our eyes.

The inipi is no longer, the altar has moved on,

only the grandfathers remain

as a new breath of life enters this world.

Where the lodge once resided, now lives a field of sage,

remnants of the seeds planted

through the prayers of our ceremony.

This place will forever resonate

in the hearts of those who answered the call,

those who gave up everything

to fight for the frozen water of a distant land,

those who arrived naive and weak and broken,

and through the struggle of surviving,

walked away as one united tribe.

We are family,

we are all related,

we are the water protectors.

*******

And we don't give a flying Goose, we're camping here tonight, we already proved that it will take an armored bulldozer to move us, so bring it on. We should be good though, the Rosebud side is supposedly still on the reservation, probably a good idea to only stay one night though. And probably shouldn't invite ten thousand of our closest friends. Maybe though.

We were rolling a dozen deep, and we picked up two more locals for the evening, I hadn't known them at camp, but they had been the closest native allies to most of our crew. She painted a picture of the events following our questionable eviction, and she had actual photos too. Not of the demolition in camp, but of the division of the tribe. They kicked us out, claimed an imminent flood that never occurred, which turns out was controllable by dam and would simply have slowed the pipe's construction further, so definitely no flood. But we already knew that something was fishy without poking holes in the ice.

Though, there had been a flood of donations sent directly to the tribe. It was so hard to find info from home, so of course one would assume that an amazon shipment directly to the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe itself, would be the safest bet. And it was safe, still is, she showed us photos of the warehouse packed full of the choicest supplies that never made it to camp.

And after the armed bulldozers were done, there was still debris to collect, so the tribe hired a crew of their own, like, their immediate relatives, for a pretty substantial paycheck as they milked it for weeks. And the council members all got $1500 beaded pendants, while their members struggled to stay warm. The nepotism of the tribal government is what creates the 'have' and 'have-not' dynamic of the rez, which explains why they wanted us out of the way of the pipe, while the people begged us to stay.

This closed community is the ultimate example of how just a few generations of colonization, can completely ruin an entire population's unified way of life. Now divided into 'us' and 'them,' only a fraction hold the power, and the fear of scarcity compels them to hold it tight. We don't even have to keep close tabs on oppression, they're doing it all on their own. This is not some problem with the indians, this is a small scale model of the framework that constructs our own cage. We've had millennia to evolve to the poisons of our ways, they've had but a few years, it doesn't mean that we're more suited for survival, it means that we're more suited to accept defeat. To welcome it. I'm not talking about agriculture this time, I'm talking about money, and to see how it has completely demolished Standing Rock, is to see how it is destroying the rest of our planet as well.

We must stop. We must remember that the only thing of value in this material world, is life itself. We must stand up and demand a new system, one where profit plays no role in the health of our family. There's only one way to remove the dollar signs from the equation of life - We must eradicate the controlling force that fuels every injustice on Earth. We must burn all the money.

*******

Now that sounds like a radical idea, and I mean that in the most ninja turtle sense of the word, totally awesome dude. Cowabunga. If there was a mass movement to hit the streets and light the night on fire, it would be a most impressive light show from space. And much like how the perceived destruction of a forest fire is actually the natural mechanism for the rebirth of life, as the smoke cleared, we would emerge anew. It's like the rent strike thing though, it could only work if enough people signed up, in fact, the two might be complimentary components of the same plan, it is gonna be a bit tough to pay rent without money after all.

The rent strike ends with us flooding the streets anyway, and by that point people will see that our plan is working, they will certainly be hesitant, but once it is apparent that the dollar will not hold its value any longer, well, people do love burning stuff. And remember how in south korea they hit the streets with candles and defeated their oppressive government? Just imagine the impact of the citizens burning pictures of presidents as they denounce capitalism's grip on their lives. Money is the mechanism of ownership, so as you eliminate it from your life, they will no longer own your time.

I'd imagine that those with the most of it will feel that they have the most to lose, and it would certainly level the playing field, creating an evenly balanced world without personal privilege, but they deny having that anyway, so it should be all good. And the wealthiest, the one percent who control over half of all the money, they're definitely not jumping on board, so isn't it just going to increase their grip on the rest of us? Sure, if you burn all your cash and still pretend it has value, but assuming that the concept of currency is as charred as the physical representation of it, then they're just gonna be left with stacks of trash and no butler to take it out.

A fun way to kick off the festivities could be a nationwide "day of non-compliance", a scheduled day on which none of us spend a single dollar. The cogs of the machine would begin to jam up, the system is not designed to operate without the lubrication of greasy money, and it would be even more spectacular if we all decided to call in sick too. It could provide a toe in the shallow end before we take the plunge into the depths of the moneyless pit, but if any of it's ever gonna work, we just have to commit to the stunt as it all begins to ramp up.

And how will we survive? The same way any country survives after they topple their government, or after the Earth topples it for them, we'll come together as a unified people and help each other. Sounds like a joke to most, but how do you possibly expect we'll recover as the growing rate of natural disasters exceeds the cells of the fema camps? We are going to be left in the streets without government support whether we like it or not, wouldn't it be easier to do it on our own terms, while we still have a society, electricity, phones, internet, fuel, and farms? Wait, maybe I do like that other plan better.

We're going to be in charge, not some paper pusher behind a desk, money doesn't grow on trees, and it doesn't make them grow either. Every bit of food that we grow to feed ourselves now, will still grow. The water will still flow. We're not talking about my big picture of a perfect world, this is just the short-term solution, so maybe still some pollution, we still have a farm and a truck and oil and all the things, there's just no invoice or debt to waste our energy on as we are forced to cut quality out of our own life or others.

Cities will certainly have a challenge ahead, but they'll also have an entire financial district with plenty of time on their hands to actually do something of worth. It will definitely be easier if we've prepared ourselves a bit, learned how to get by with minimal means, planted food instead of grass, or asphalt, but again, we're on the verge of either doing that anyway, or just giving up as we prove unfit to survive.

And as for the logistics of the burn, there are a couple of clouds to clear up, like, the ecological impact of sending billions up in smoke. Yeah, I'm not sure about that one, but I can't imagine it could be any more toxic up there than it is down here.

Even if we have to continue polluting as we figure it out, we will naturally transition to a more natural way. Without the incentives of money, we'll no longer build just to build, we'll only create what we need. We'll no longer use unsustainable products and poisonous plastics just because they are cheaper. We'll no longer eat inferior foods just because it's all we can afford. We'll no longer burn oil to export dirty oil as we import other oil to grease our pockets. We'll no longer dump endless emissions for needless industries or equally idiotic commutes. No one would sit in rush hour traffic to drive into a city with empty offices, when there's more food and family and work to be done in their own community. So, without the calculators of wall street, I can't quite add it all up, but I'm pretty sure that destroying all the money will create a much more pleasant atmosphere around the globe.

Ok then big guy, what about the obvious flaw in this silly idea of humanity actually working together to create a better world for their children? Um, nobody even uses paper money anymore. It's all debits and credits and direct deposits and wire transfers and paypal and bitcoins and online banking. What are we going to do, burn our computers?

You gotta pretty good point there, our money's not even based on money anymore, which hasn't been based on gold for a long time, and with each transaction away from tangible currency, the banks have only tightened their grip on our lifelines. Money's not a real thing, I've said that all along, but it's even truer when it's all ones and zeroes. Or fractions.

So what can you do to help this movement when all of your funds are tied up in wells fargo? Well, first of all, you should have divested from them a long time ago, they are not a good company, they specifically fund the corporations that are destroying our planet. Sure, it's hard to beat their convenient locations, which means that once you realize the graveyards their fortunes are built on, it'll be that much easier to pull out.

But if you're serious about kicking this deadly habit, then just visit the bank and go through the withdrawals. I doubt they'd like that very much, poor old personal megabankers, especially once we start trending on twitter. If enough of us flood in before they get bailed out, they will collapse. And that's not even factoring in the mass mortgage default of the rent strike, I'm just talking about they're fictional practices of fractional lending.

I can't give wells fargo credit though, they're not the only ones overextended, the entire banking system is built on fraudulent terms. Banks only keep ten percent of their clients' money safe, the rest they are allowed to loan out as they circle their prey. This whole scheme enables them to amass wealth out of thin air, accruing exponential interest from indentured america, and now with the digital dollar, their purchasing power just skyrocketed. So what happens if more than ten percent of their victims come forward? What if say, a quarter of their fanbase all of a sudden remove their stock in the company? Well, they'd dry up, they'd have to shut their doors until they could replenish their inventory, it would be illegal to operate without their minimal balance, and no good banker would ever be so unscrupulous as to break the law.

Wells fargo is huge though, big enough to fund a planet's upheaval, and lots of locations, remember? If it were only one branch, they'd just send an armored car to transfer funds. If it were a bigger bank breakage though, it could slow their cash flow to a trickle down theory, but I bet their bedmates in the government already have some kinda back up plan, like just more lies and deceit. But the bottom line is, that the people would have spoken, and they cannot silence us all.

And remember, this was all really just a fun side effect of us funding the revolution. As many of us that can, can liquidate our accounts, and we already know that they love to invest in flammable liquids. We'll walk into the bank, take out our money, and torch it in the parking lot.

And that won't draw attention from law enforcement I'd imagine, it is only a federal offense to destroy government property, though technically every dollar in circulation is only loaned to the US by the private entity who printed it, the federal reserve. The biggest fractional fraud of the whole friggin nation, and we are forever in debt at they are the regulators of our variable interest rate. They literally have a lien out against our country, which means that they hold the title, and until we can somehow manage to get our head above water, they own us. And ocean levels are rising.

We're trillions in debt, though what difference is trillions from millions to someone who's seen neither? 80% of our country is in debt, many suffering from the chokeholds of a colonized college education, and even more despicable is the death sentence issued to those whose medical bills exceed their motivation to live. Perhaps the least interesting side effect of breathing the burnt banknotes, is the ashloads of debt that will be erased overnight. No more money, means no more overtime just to make minimal payments on your never ending credit card fraud. It quickly becomes much easier to recruit volunteers to give up their gross income, as they realize that they're actually coming out ahead on the deal. Regardless of the mechanism that we employ to reorganize society, and even if it takes us a substantial transition period to get there, we must erase all debt now, it is the only way to release the hostages of the biggest bank heist of all time.

It all seems too big to fail, but who would ever agree to cash-in their retirement to save the future? Once you've invested your whole life into another's pocket, it's scary to think about walking away with nothing, all that hard work down the drain, and this mentality keeps our heads down and mouths quiet as we do what we must to survive.

The whole messed up part about the money trap, is that without it, the vast majority of humans would experience a far greater quality of life. Which means that anyone's unwillingness to give it up, is a direct willingness to allow the suffering of poverty to continue. I can live without money. I cannot live with the knowledge that my privileged pockets are filled with the deathnotes of another. I have personally burned united states currency - and it was one of the most gratifying experiences of my life. But what do I know, I'd rather just burn down the whole thing anyway, maybe I'll just stick to books for now.

*******

I'm sure it didn't look conspicuous at all, a caravan of hippies and indians led by a school bus of dropouts, as we navigated the narrow clearance back to what used to be tipi village. We even managed to get the bus tucked into a patch of trees so that it wasn't visible from the road, pretty sure a daplcopter would still have noticed though. It took some real effort to orient yourself without any manmade landmarks, especially without any snow either. Go to the third army tent on the right and turn south, past Smokey's tipi and the healing yurt, and you should see it straight ahead. Nope, just a piece of prairie with more trees than the other camps, and that's the only way it was possible at all, Oceti was just a giant open field. Well, there may have been a few other identifiers, like the Squash growing out of the compost pile.

All on it's own, no fence or fertilizer, the most fit seeds survived. The movement was evolving. Of course, the soil had been covered with poison, not the nuclear waste filled pellets of industrial fertilization that fill your grocery cart, but the chemicals that dapl was trying to stunt our growth with. Sure, there was three feet of silver nitrate all over, but that's old news, they also used rat poison to try to eradicate the Buffalo that had survived our country's initial species endangerment, but they really had no other choice on that one. Not only did the roaming herd give us the strength to stand strong, they performed their own direct actions as they stampeded the dapl cops and let them know who was in charge. Yeah, the Tatanka Oyate rushed their offensive line and forced them to flee the scene of their crimes, they ran back to their humvees in fear of the most sacred animal of the very land they were desecrating.

You couldn't write something more poetically justified, I couldn't at least, and I bet it terrified them to feel the wrath of Unci Maka in such a big way. Like the changing winds that dissipated the teargas, or the lightening that struck the drill pad, or the frozen days that broke their brittle bits, or the power of prayer that made them second guess their team affiliations. What possible service to the people can you provide, if it requires pointing assault rifles into their face while you do it?

But the more pressing question at hand - is this Squash safe to eat? Hmm... might take a little research on this one, poisons can either be water soluble or oil based, which would drastically affect its effect on our growth. But, if you're a hippie or an indian, you could just pray over it and assume that the Earthlings sprouting out of this place of such sacred energy, will overcome whatever negative vibrations the enemies of life have poured into our dear mother. Freaking hippies.

No doubt about that one, as we sat around the fire and kumbaya'd for a bit. Then our numbers started to dwindle as our woodpile did the same, which meant that the time had come for my personal ceremony of moving on in a good way. I wasn't waiting for the crowd to dissipate or anything, I'd imagined them all being by my side, and I still had a few stragglers left to bear witness, but like with anything else, I was patient until the moment felt right. I wasn't going to impose my own intent over top of our community's equally impactful return, plus, this way insured that I'd have all the time in the world to pray.

I'd also imagined being around the fire at Echo 3, my sacred fire, the flame through which I first shared my heart with the heavens. But that's right up by the road. Now, I'm no pansy or anything, not that there's anything wrong with Pansies, but this fire was held sacred by the members of my family that I was sharing space with, and it was still in Rosebud camp at Standing Rock, this was a most sacred fire indeed. It'll do just fine, and it did.

I shared Tobacco with the flame, as well as words of my heart, sang the vibrations of a prayer song unknown to me the last time I prayed in the land where my connection began, all the while holding six months of prayers that I'd poured onto the page - and then I tossed them into the fire.

My brother Patrick had protested, a skill refined in this very terrain, "Are you sure you want to do this?" Certainly a valid inquiry, wouldn't most novice writers want to retain their hard copies, a value of sentiment and one day even worth actual money?

Yes, I was sure, I'd known that this was the fate of these pages for some time, even before I had finished filling them. This was no rushed decision, this was a pull from my heart. I hadn't even needed them since I left the farm, I was done transcribing long ago, I'd already removed any metal or plastic components and wrapped them in a red prayer cloth. I'd carried them to Sun Dance, and as I hitchhiked away from that sacred space, the six notebooks were the heaviest piece of my minimal means, they were dear to my heart no doubt, but a weight I was ready to let go of.

I offered him some real world logistic reasoning too, like, I only own four other things and have no place that I call home, where am I going to keep them? I could obviously task a friend to hold them, but I am consciously removing the baggage that ties me down, not spreading my burden to others. And the 'no home' bit, that's a stretch, I have so many places that I call home, so many places that welcome me in, it's just that I feel 'home' under my feet, no matter what the gps coordinates have to say about it.

Another tangible reason to make these words untouchable - this is my first draft, I did a severe edit as I typed the text, I don't really want this version read by another, and I already know what it says. Plus, these books were composed before I'd relocated my witnesses. In order to keep up with my heart as it recalled its awakening, I used everyone's real names. We are the resistance against an empire who will stop at nothing to silence us, I can't just be handing them our entire roster on a spiral platter. No, these may not stay in this material world as a permanent piece of propagandic pollution, and the words are already out there for all to read freely, but really, I'm burning these for me.

Standing Rock had transformed me, as it had all of us, and then writing about it provided an even stronger transformation. My heart was in these books. My tears were on the pages. There was probably even blood in there somewhere too. I held them close for half a year, protected them from the elements as I steered my path based on their well-being. Tried not to imagine how I would feel if they were compromised, but in the end, I knew that I had written them for me, so as long as I completed my homework, it would be ok if my eyes were the only witness.

But I sure did want to share them. I wrote them for the good of all of humanity. For all of life. For Unci Maka. I had felt such a great weight of responsibility to share my experience, to a point that I was obsessive about my ten-hour-day schedule, and I felt that this pressure was holding me back from truly living the moment. From moving on to the next step of my transformation. How could I be in the 'now', if I was reliving the past to plan the future? I still got carried away with the wind, I still followed my heart and experienced coincidental miracles, and I still knew that this was absolutely what I was supposed to be doing.

And now, I understand the angst to share my words with a little more clarity. I'm yet again writing about the past and future, and feel that these words may be more important than the last, but I don't feel anxiety to speed the flow. I know that it'll be done at the perfect moment, probably some ironic date of national importance or something, and I also understand that I am here right 'now.'

As I put my pen to this page, this is the moment that magic can happen. I didn't plan most of the words you've read, maybe a few concepts as my growing philosophies have been blooming, but any sentence that struck a chord and put chills in your spine as it has mine, was purely conceived in the moment. I didn't even know about the burning money thing until I wrote the words, and now I'm all about it.

I don't keep a journal as I travel, I don't plan what I'll write tomorrow, I pen one word at a time, and they tell of this miraculous life I've manifested, through my unwillingness to compromise my commitment to this path. I'm constantly surprised at how each chapter weaves itself together as if I had planned it, I'm not near that good of a writer on my own. And back then I definitely wasn't, but I had finished this leg of the journey, I was ready to move on, to begin the next step of evolving my connection, to release this weight from my heart and share it with the universe.

Until now, these had been 'my' words, but their work was done here, and just as we place our Tobacco ties into the peta wakan so that it may carry our prayers to the spirit world, I placed the stack of notebooks atop the fire, and watched their energy float away as it spread out into the great mystery of cosmic connection. My gift to the universe. A small token of appreciation for this incredible life that I am so grateful to get to experience. And as the smoke turned the pages of my own story, I prayed that it would carry them to the hearts of those who need them the most. To those that are ready to wake up. I prayed that they would make it to you.

*******

And geez did they take a long time to burn, about an hour. I sang that sunrise song, no Sun yet, but not only was it easy enough for my companions to accompany me on, it also felt appropriate as this was the dawn of my new chapter. This was the absolute last thing that I had somewhat planned, tomorrow was truly the first day of the rest of my life. I sat up alone for a bit and watched the last of the pages disappear into the wind, and then again, I laid my head to rest next to the heartbeat of my dearest Unci Maka.

The Eagle flies high, as he carries our words,

Tatanka Oyate, have made their return,

The water is clear, the people can see,

Our prayers have been answered, round this cloth covered tree.

*******

"Good morning Staaaannndiiiiing Roooccck." Probably the quietest morning I'd ever experienced here, and we were with five kids, though, no low flying helicopter to remind me why I was here. Sure felt like a vacation to me, a little open-fire breakfast, a recount of how many stars we could see without the obtrusion of the blinding dapl lights, and even some camp coffee to kick start our sophomore attempt of escaping unscathed. A little prayer probably wouldn't hurt either. "Do you guys want to make some prayer ties to hang up before we leave?" Uh, yeah, duh.

We sat around and took a strip of each color cloth: Black for the west, wiyohpeyata, the direction of the Wakinyan Oyate and the water they bring; Red for the north, waziyata, a prayer for the harsh winds that teach us of patience and perseverance; Yellow for the east, wiohiyanpata, the spirits of new beginnings and understanding; White for the south, itokagata, the direction of warmth from the sun who provides us with the life of all things; and then Blue to the sky and Green to the Earth, our ancestors who basically gave us everything we've ever known, no big.

Everyone split up on our own missions to where we each wanted to place our Tobacco filled prayers. There was a single section of wooden fence by the mess hall that was already flowing in the wind, can't do fences though, then there was the trees around the inipi, or the sacred fire, or maybe the most sacred Echo 3 security post, but I had another idea. If I could even find it.

I tried to orient myself, maybe this spot was where the donation tent was, ok, then maybe over here was the asheville yurt, then back a bit and make a right at a tipi, and towards the road a few paces, and, is it? Could it? I'm thinking this might be... Aha, it is, here's a scrap of rope they left in the tree, and here, it's a fragment of a plastic bowl I'd found to shovel snow - I had actually found my very first campsite from my earliest days at Standing Rock.

It had just been a summer tent that I set up between layers of blizzard, ah, what fun. I got on my knees, burned some Sage, and held another pinch of Tobacco as I ran the fingers of my other hand through the soil of my mother. I was flooded with emotion, waves of gratitude, such an incredible journey into myself that had begun right here. I shared my heart, my prayers, my experience since I left this place.

I assume that Unci Maka knows my spirit no matter where my body lay, but who knows about these trees and bugs and every other little piece of her? I suspect they can feel my heart, but I often go on about conversation with an assumption that they're already caught up on my backstory, they could be like, "Who on Earth is this guy?"

Or their interwoven rooting into the only thing real in this world, could have them right there with me, either way, I wanted to share a song with my mom to show her all that I've been up to. I left tears in the dirt, and put the shard of plastic bowl under the tree with the tent strap, then I tied my string of prayers to the bigger tree that stood at the front of my campsite, visible from the road for all to see. The water protectors are still here.

We reconvened at the caravan, and our local hosts reappeared to see us off. We all prayed at the water, it's kinda our thing, and he shared a bit of the history of this land with me. This was a place of peace and fertility, it was the wintering grounds for three tribes that converged into one, every fall. Three camps, but one heart, and regardless of their quarrels throughout the year, they set them aside and became a community once again.

The Cannonball river provided life to the land, Timpsilas and wild Potatoes, a place to plant Corn, Beans and Squash, and as many untainted fish as you could catch. Deer filled the horizon to the east, and Buffalo the hills to the west. Tipis covered the land, drums charged the air with prayer vibrations, and the Wanbli Oyate delivered them skyward. Hundreds and hundreds of Eagles flew overhead, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of spiraling wings as they also partook in the feast. I already knew that this place was special, a magic energy that bred connection, and now as I picture the scene, I am once again humbled by the incredible bounty provided to those who live in a good way.

*******

In a good way? Then what was that about all those quarrels and stuff? See, even in your magic kingdom, people just can't get along, it's in our blood to dispute the justice of the peace. Nice try, but I'm sticking to my story, and this story obviously took place post invasion.

Yeah, it was before we poached the Eagles down to a point that they were rare enough to make them a national treasure. Sure, it was before we nearly extinctualized the millions of Buffalo, and took the famous picture of the mountains of skulls that we kept as we discarded the corpses. Ok, so it was before we poisoned the fish and the people and the ground and the water, but that's just because we were occupied doing all that same stuff back east. No, this was definitely after we landed, which means we came and saw this incredible splendor unfolding before our eyes, and somehow a human being was capable of destroying this obvious gift from God. The Iceberg of Eden.

And now their descendants are trying to finish the job, with a giant black snake, capable of swallowing any drop of life that still lingers. The colonizers saw the connection, they saw the power of prayer, and it terrified them. Enough so, that they would rather destroy everything good in the world, than ever consider sharing it with a people who understood the meaning of life.

It's easy to think that you wouldn't have murdered the Eagles, or the Buffalo, or even the indians. That if you had been alive back then, then they would still be alive today. That if you could have stood up to the malevolent forces that put all three on the endangered species list, that you would have. That you would be the type of wild west character that children sing songs about on the school bus. It's easy to think that you'd be one of the good guys, selflessly sacrificing your own life for the good of another. But somehow it seems way harder to even consider a life of less convenience, even as the effects are endangering not just the indians, but the entirety of life on Earth, including your own descendants, who will look back and imagine that had they been in your shoes, they would have done something to stop the complete annihilation of everything good in the world. They would have at least tried. It's easy to close your eyes and pretend you're a good guy, but it's time to wake up and actually be one.

*******

But wait, how can I be so sure that this mythical winter wonderland wasn't some orally traditioned hand-me-down from some ancient time of Edenistic abundance? Well, I guess it wasn't strictly a mouth-to-mouth herstory lesson, there are plenty of accompanying illustrations in the Lakota's "Winter Count," the record of past events as chronicled by solar cycle, not google calendar. They retell the story of the tribe from what would be the equivalent of 900 AD, and display a clear schedule of events, such as the arrival of the horse in 1692, the first horse raids in 1706, followed by the first inter-tribal conflict and a gift basket of smallpox blankets. It's also clear that battles were more like football games, and the honor of winning occurred by counting coup, not clipping hair. Go sports. There's pictographs of Sun Dances, boarding schools, broken treaties and eclipses, and all-in-all a much more accurate historical record of america than america would ever print in english.

And if you're still unwilling to acknowledge that the social studies of your broken society could possibly have passed on any misinformation, then there's another pretty basic proof that establishes the timeline of the establishment - the Lakota didn't move back here until the seventeenth century when colonization pushed them westward, before that, they lived in a different neighborhood of the same magic garden. America was the beautiful land of the free, now it's the home of walmart parking lots. Funny enough though, those are one of the very few places you can actually park your RV without paying rent, I dare you to set up a tipi though.

*******

And I'd love to set up a tipi, to help make one with my fam and carry it on my travels, except then I'd have to carry it on my travels. I just got rid of the heaviest thing in my bag, I'm not quite ready to start dragging around a mobile home. I could leave the poles behind, but just the canvas would be enough to break me from walking too far. Daddy Erenbrook scoffed, a small thirteen footer would be easy to carry and could even hang from a tree, though he'd hitchhiked across the country with a big one, poles and all. I told you they were something else alright.

And again it was time to part ways. A possibility of crossing paths in a few weeks, but neither of us really had much of a plan beyond today. Been here before, to a point that it's tough to even be sad anymore, we'll see each other soon, I'm sure.

Plus, it's tough to be sad when part of our entourage pulls out a giant bag of peji from oregon, specifically donated to water protectors, and their intent to distribute is overwhelming. Like, I caught a couple Zs for the road. Nice. And once again I found myself in the truck with Unci, but this time it was across Patrick's bench seat. We buckled up for whatever was ahead, but then it seemed that in true Standing Rock fashion, it was always something. The bus was broken.

A bolt was missing on the transmorgaphier and the belt was just flopping around as coolant spewed out, not good. We'll assume that dapl humvees are minutes from invasion, mainly because it makes a better story. So I climbed up on the giant diesel engine, tinkered some tools, but what could I really do?

Hmm... yep, got it. I ran into the treeline and grabbed a wire coat hanger that I'd seen amongst the rubble of our winter's remains, and wrapped it tight around the part - worked. Oh yeah, we fixed the bus with bona fide Standing Rock debris and made a hasty exodus down highway 1806, deja vu to the fullest, man I love this place. I've often heard the sentiment, "I left my heart in Standing Rock," well I didn't, that's where I found mine. Aho.

*******

Next stop, Unci's place, just for a night to grab some of her gear, and the camp cup that I'm bad about leaving behind. You'd think with only three items in my bag, that I'd be able to manage, but then I wouldn't have had room for all this pej. In the morning we departed, and through no planning of my own, next thing I know we're driving through Rosebud reservation, right past the Sun Dance grounds. "Um, I think we should stop here for a bit."

Harvey was home, surprised to see that I was still around and excited to hear my updates, especially after I passed along a few Zs of some strong medicine. I knew that I was given this to spread healing among the people, and what better way to do that than to hand it off to the most powerful medicine man on my friends list? Plus, it's gonna be some kush karmic ju-ju, and it was, I've been in a pretty solid abundance of the stuff ever since. What a cool freaking adventure.

Finally we were off to our final destination, for now, yet another return as I seemed to be on a backtracking trip through the dakotas, where I was yet again greeted by Smokey, as we pull into Camp White Clay Justice. And as if I thought it would work out any other way, I got my wish after all, I moved into my very own tipi at the edge of camp. Well, me and Unci, we just can't seem to shake each other, not that we'd want to or anything. Well, maybe sometimes.

I had stayed in a different tipi for the couple of nights I'd been here before, but now someone else lived there. And someone was still somewhat living in my new digs, but they had been gone for over a week. None of this was any kind of concern. As long as I had a place to put my pillow, I was good. No one was gonna show up and kick me out in the middle of the night. It's not my tipi, what do I care?

And that's how it had been back at camp, people switched homes more fluidly than our water ever was. If you left and returned, odds were that you had a change of address. There might not even be a tipi where you used to live. There was no 'mine.' No 'property.' No inherent right of individual permanence in a community of uncertainty. We didn't even know if tonight was the night that we'd get raided by the army, who cares where you sleep? Except maybe your proximity to the mess hall. Or the compost toilets. I don't travel with a tent, so I'm grateful for any roof over my head, although a tipi is pretty much just a wall.

It's super easy to move, especially if you don't have much stuff to pack. Easy to construct, especially if you're besties with the crew. Low ecological impact during the manufacturing process, especially with pedal power. Minimal footprint, both in diameter and the amount of time it takes Unci Maka to heal after you've gone. Quick rebuilding period before or after a flood or forest fire or coastline erosion or tree falling in the woods. And it's cheap, if that's a thing you still worry about. Inexpensive to make, plus it saves a ton down the road.

No need to hire an arborist to kill a tree in order to save your house, just take an hour and move it down the block. No need to spend millions fighting a naturally occurring forest fire, one that is actually healthy for the forest as it jump starts a new growth of food, especially after the extreme draught caused by the rerouting of massive water supplies, just take it down and go on vacation until after the burn. No pumping water out of a flood damaged home, it drains completely on its own. No need to lobby your local officials to import another's sand just to save your property value, as the shifting tides shift the beach you simply move a couple feet with the rising ocean level. And in a brave new world of iceberg collapse and a submerged florida, it's gonna make a lot more sense than miami's biggest municipal expense of pumping polluted water out of the below sea-level sidewalks, which only adds to the emissive melting of mankind.

No more hotel fees wherever you visit, so no more hotels, so more space for activities. No vinyl siding or window prison replacement or homeowner's insurance or termites or whatever else they've come up with to milk every last dime out of your quest to become a grown-up. No need for agriculture if you can just follow the food, and no gas stove because you can build a fire right on the floor. It's better for the environment, better for your wallet, and better for you. I'm no tipi salesman, I'm really just an enthusiast of a migratory way of life. And I also think that it is absolutely necessary for the permanence of our species, that we forget the concept of permanence altogether.

*******

It's just a selfish thing really. To build a building that'll last a hundred years. Why? Will you? To pass on value to your kids, who build their own house to pass on to theirs, who build their own as well. To create a world of empty houses that require tons of maintenance to upkeep from falling down.

So, they're not even that permanent anyway, we just keep throwing destruction at the world to create the illusion of permanence. But, I paid a lot of money to own this property, so it better last a long long long time. And I can even afford a vacation home that I'll only use twice a year, but I don't even go out when I'm there anymore, because the homeless population has gotten completely out of hand.

Those dirty bums are single-handedly destroying my property value, what do I care if they lost their arm fighting a war for my low gas prices? At least I live in a progressive city that started exporting the homeless to warmer climates, wish they could do the same for the Carpenter Bees, Woodpeckers, and most importantly the Termites.

But nope, the only option is poison, but that's what they get for trying to eat the decaying woods of their evolutionary diet. Yeah, sure, we leveled their forest to subdevelop three-story single family homes, but we're investing in our future, at least for the next thirty years, so how dare they trespass on our private property? If only they could figure out how to eat contracts. But even the ex-Termite-haters who understand the natural flow of eating house and home, they still fight back against the water that threatens the concrete foundations of civilization.

Oh, you can't stand the rain? Is this fundamental cycle of renewal that washes away every other creature's temporary domicile, is it just not working for you? Dam it. It's not your fault that your neighborhood was built in a flood zone, or that the flood waters keep climbing for some unknown reason, as well as flood insurance premiums, but luckily we can build a levee to keep your tax value from ever receding. And we don't even have to murder a single species, we just have to interrupt the input of the most vital element of life to an entire ecosystem, while we sink another. Plus, if it ever breaks, no worries, we built it above low-income black neighborhoods with no insurance, certainly that'll curb their permanence in this world, as the saints go marching in.

But that type of disaster is only natural, and I'd much rather be there than in some tropical territory, an island that would take years to rebuild after the storm set its eye on the next wave of erosion. How many times will we recolonize a sinking ship before we realize that it's lost at sea? And how long would it take to rebuild the island, if it were still composed of the low-impact infrastructure of the indigenous people who knew better than to build up? I've been in a storm that knocked tipis down, sure, it was a little cold, but we had them back up way before the national guard showed up to help.

Of course, there's big money in rebuilding, we make almost as much from the reconstruction of warzones as we do destroying them. There's bookoos of buckaroos to be split among the wood-fired framing of america, plus the lumberjacks get to take their hefty clearcut. The steel workers union gets to extract higher profits when we insist on scraping the skies of planetary seizures, it's not their fault though. And in a world where the economy rules supreme, I guess it does make sense to ensure repeat customers by placing your disposable products directly in the path of totality. We just simply can't live without this unsustainable skyline of such historic value, how else will we remember the impermanence of the villages we destroyed to make room for thirty starbucks?

But bigger is better is stronger is longer, and the castles of tyranny are just further evidence that the ego of civilization is terrified of its collapse. That's what it is, it's that ego talking, that desire of ownership, of property, of leaving a mark on this world, even if it's only a scar across your mother's face. But, it's the way we're raised, it's the testament of a successful career of colonization, you're not a proper adult until you've built a name for yourself, a legacy that will outlast your physical being, a place in the history books and a place to keep them, just to prove to your grandchildren that you weren't a complete failure.

Now, I'm not knocking quality craftsmanship, built to last means that it'll hold up, houses, cars, heavy machinery and homestead cookstoves, the older the better, because the alternative is the modern convenience of a disposable life. It's cheaper to buy a new kuerig with a case of single-serve plastics, than to pay to fix last year's model, so we'll just toss it in the landfill and add another link to the industrial supply chain. It's the cost effective solution, which is all that matters, plus you get the latest greatest cell phone with wiretap technology - assembled by inmate number 4321.

No, the solution to a world full of everlasting stuff, is not some space age material that falls apart twice as fast, but somehow still lasts a million years. If you're going to convince me that we can build permanent structures in a good way, then I've got to convince you to forget this ownership schtick.

*******

You built a big fancy house, cool, especially if you used reclaimed materials that didn't pull living resources from the Earth. If I look to the animal nation, most dwellings don't seem to dwell very long, but I think seashells count, and they're built to last. But there's no deed. Even after months of calcifying a new home, once a creature is ready to move on in a good way, they leave their outgrown apartment free for the taking, it's the only way they can begin to expand their being.

Then another being snags it up and the circle of realty is a reality. So, as long as you're living in your family fortress, keep on keeping on, but once you're done with it, it's gotta be up for grabs. It would be like a selfish shellfish taking up a new home, but guarding the old shell against a sea of shell-less fish, who must now sink their treasures into the rental racket routine.

We've even got a correlation to the indian way, their homes may not be cemented down, but I gotta concrete example that even weaves in some food philosophy. There are tribes who allowed families to lay claim to a specific section of land to which they would steward. They developed relationships to the trees and animals, and it was a faux pas to just barge in without sending a smoke signal first. But after they left for a certain period of time, it was once again up for consideration. What did they need it for? Obviously they'd found somewhere more suited to their tastes. No one owned the land or got upset as new tenants moved in, it was actually welcomed, because a good live-in steward brought vitality to all who lived in the area.

So, if you leave your house, for another home or another world, just leave the door unlocked. Another person could take over upkeep, or some filthy animals could move in, your second-cousin-in-law could even continue the legacy, but local residents only. You can't lock it away empty as it takes up space, and you definitely can't rent it out for a myriad of reasons, and if you're not actively using it, you should want someone to appreciate the beauty of granddad's handiwork.

You still can't get hung up on thinking that it's a forever kinda thing though, not when that fallacy is going to require the sacrifice of another being's being. Termites eat houses, just know that. It's one of Unci Maka's ways of redistributing the wealth. The wood in your walls is meant to decompose back into her soil as it empowers a new generation of life, you have to let it continue along its fated journey.

Trees fall even when we're not selling them to the highest bidder, but that doesn't give us the right to murder them first, even if it's just to stop them from crashing into their murdered kin that skin your home. Floods happen, and the real issue here is the toxic components of today's construction, or yesterday's asbestos, not quite as eco-friendly as a Buffalo hide and some Lodge Pine poles floating down the river. I want to navigate a solution for you to hold onto that old farmhouse, but the more I look at it, the more I think we just need more tipis.

Or what about mobile homes? Not cheaped-out gas guzzling RVs, but a quality structure that felt like home no matter where it was. Like a school bus or something. A tiny house that wasn't always on the road, you'd set it up semi-permanently, and as the liquid Earth beneath you ebbed and flowed, you'd relocate your nest to a more suitable location.

Or each community could have a fleet of these, or a field of tipis, but as you travel between villages, you'd leave 'yours' behind, and know that you'd have a new home-away-from-home while someone else would have shelter behind you. It's like the housing swap page on craigslist, but with the fleet of Standing Rock. Busses, tipis, yurts, tarpees, RVs, tents, and the now actually trending in the mainstream so you could still be a hipster too - tiny homes. Or just make extra medium modular houses that could break down and move, or even expand if you just must have that bonus room.

You would carry your personal belongings with you and reset them up once you arrived. No extra horsepower required to move the house, but it would feel like you had pulled a wizard of oz kinda deal. Or if you insist on using technology to solve the problems brought on by technology, let's invent a material that lasts one adult lifetime.

"Implastic TM" You get a cool futuristic extruded home, and after thirty years of zero equity, it dissolves its fertilization back to the Earth. You'd take all of your stuff out, maybe move on, maybe set up a new one in the same spot, but once it was abandoned, it wouldn't be another eyesore littering everyone's view of the planet. I'm no scientist, I'm hardly even a writer, but I bet the Corn starched recipe is less complicated, than convincing your homeowner's association to let you not decapitate your family members who live in the front yard.

*******

I'm still on team tipi though, I think the nomadic way of life is the healthiest for the planet, and the conical covering of close proximity to that planet, is the healthiest for us. As the ocean continues to rise, our housing crisis is going to toxify the Earth's water even further. Way worse than that time our tipis were bulldozed, to save them from a fake flood, so that there'd be enough room for oil in the water.

We need to live in structures that break down in a good way, we need to not have a house full of toxic chemicals and oils and plastics and a bunch of junk to be polluting the up-and-coming sea level. The planet's about to be changing her makeup, even if it ends up taking fifty years, but even these cookie cutter mini-mansions might last that long, and probably be just dilapidated enough to vinyl side the entire east coast.

We have to drop the ego and admit to ourselves that we screwed our children's future, we have to start curbing the devastation that they will experience, and reducing the number of generations it will take to recover. The water of the Earth is going to run black, it's already well on its way, is this really something you want to lie to your kids about as you pretend it's not real?

And to those without kids who are cheering on this toxic tidal wave, guilt-free gluttony as they have brought no children into this broken world, dead and gone tomorrow so no worries for changing today, shame on you for condemning the bloodline of your entire family tree just because you chose the path of least descendants.

A little too extreme for you? Well, let's imagine the extremities that are just too far-fetched to ever fit into your fantasy world. We can assume that the well-documented rising temperature trends and rising ocean levels, are at no fault of our own, a purely coincidental natural occurrence that we have no control over, so no guilt to carry as we share the fairy tale of our children's future. It's definitely happening though. Slowly for now, but even at that rate, our coastal cities are already submerging.

Our biggest metropolitan area is built on an island, forget a pipeline leak, how much oil and other filth is just gonna float away, once a few more feet of acid rain wash new york downstream? And LA's toxic vibrations are near the water, and chicago's on a pretty big lake, and most of our most concentrated pollutants seem to be conveniently built within the next tsunami's reach. Don't worry about the people still trying to survive in this drowning pool of colonized chaos, they simply have no chance, but even if you live at the peak of civilization in middle america, once our biggest urban areas and their outskirted industrial landfills and petroleum powered traffic jams are underwater, it's somehow gonna be far more detrimental than the nuclear meltdowns that we're actively spewing into our own timeline.

And let's pretend for a moment, that pipelines don't already leak millions of gallons of sludge into our water, this is all hypothetical hyperbole anyway, right? But what happens as the current rising of crashing waves, completes the destruction of the energy infrastructure? The one that some hippies and indians suggested taking apart before it was filled with poison. And that includes the massive oceanfront storage facilities that prepare our petroleum for export.

Oil is going to affect the chemical composition of our entire planet's water supply, whether it leaks in your backyard or not. You might be able to find a few floating plastic bottles of the cleaner stuff, but how are you ever going to irrigate the precious farm that feeds your family? The ocean running black has far more impact than just the darkened future of oil-based beach vacations.

But that's all in some mysterious future world, where it's really too tough to predict which disaster will take us out first, why, they could even all happen at the same time and we'd have volcanic hurricanes of petroleum powered pyrotechnics, and maybe even laser beam sharks. But no need to concern ourselves with the overwhelming abundance of devastation that we've set into perpetual motion, we can just let our kids figure that one out, plus, you did stress the importance of simply living in the now.

Ah, you got me there, I do speak of the need to be present in the moment, so let me present what's happening at this very moment, as I warm you up to an understanding of the urgency of our emergency.

*******

I have a friend who worked in alaska doing some sciency kinda stuff for almost a year, sounds way too cold for me, but I've seen pictures of some pretty chill landscapes. Most of the state is inaccessible on wheels, but luckily there is a 900 mile icy road cut through the terrain, and hardly any traffic jams. A beautiful iceberg expedition into wild alaska, on one side at least, the other window reveals the paralleling 900 mile pipeline. This is why the road is even here. This is no news though, especially not when we saw the international intelligence of their gubernatorial selection process, but that's pale in comparison to the absurd measures they've had to resort to, in order to freeze government spending.

The Earth is warming. It may not be apparent to all of us in the lower forty-eight, where we still experience an occasional cold snap that enables us to ignore the obvious changes happening around us, but in the northern exposure of frozen tundra, a land that used to only experience the cold days of summer, it's much more noticeable when your home begins to melt with every step you take.

I'm not talking about giant glaciers the size of states falling away, I'm talking about the permafrost that has always been there to provide a solid foundation for the footprint of mankind. But even permafrost has no permanence on this liquid planet, no problem for the indigenous igloo of Ziggy Zag, but a major problem for a 900 mile pipeline full of oil, as its footing begins to destabilize. This is not about to happen, this started happening over ten years ago, the pipe started shifting it's weight like the slithering black snake that it is.

Even the blinders of the right wing couldn't keep their heads in the melting ice any longer. A devastative state was imminent, this pipeline wasn't going to leak, it was going to collapse. So the proponents of the pipe had to take direct action before we did, and they probably even slowed the flow, until they could design a more stable solution to the pollution, that even the least eco-conscious could deny no longer.

Ha, that's about as likely as me slowing the flow of my spewing articulations. The ground was melting out from under the pipe that was delivering the very fuel that fed the fire, but instead of considering the future of further unfreezing, they elected to pour even more CO2 emissions into the suffocating atmosphere, in order to buy a couple more years of profit.

They literally installed a string of industrial freezers to blast the ground with lower temperatures. They were going to fight global warming with the machines that cause it. The pipeline is now resting on an ice block that is only held together by the nuclear power grid of the electrician general. They know that temperature rise is real, without a doubt, but instead of waking up to the realization that the time to do something about it is now, they only hit the snooze button, as they plunder every drop of profit they can, before the next power outage pours oil across the disappearing tundra.

In what world with any semblance of a moral obligation to protect anything other than shareholder's interest, could we possibly allow this travesty to take place? This is the legacy we leave our children to deal with. The climate is changing, and it will wash away our sins - into the mouths of our future. It is too late to stop this process, it has already begun, we are living within the sixth global extinction event as we speak.

With every insistence of progressing the permanence of civilization, we only add further devastations for our kids to face down the road. The only thing built to last, is the extended forecast of disaster that will be handed down for generations. It is scary to think about, knowing that your kids will be facing such a perilous future, it's almost easier to pretend that everything is ok, as you shelter them from the reality of what lies ahead. It's tough to face the guilt of our ignorance, but unless we admit that we messed up, then we'll be left with the guilt of murdering any hope that they possibly have to survive.

We can't stop the waves of change that are already on the way, but don't you think we owe it to them, to try to clean up as much of it as we can before disaster strikes? We don't need to build more stuff to brace for impact, we need to tear down camp before the global flood contaminates every water based cell, of every water based being, of our water based planet.

The end of the world as we know it, is right around the corner, but that is no reason to run and hide. The devastation will be widespread, many people could die, but through this adversity, the strong will rise up, evolution will occur, and humanity will emerge anew as we shed our toxic chrysalis of slumber. Our children await in the cocoon, but only if we prepare them for the metamorphosis ahead, will they be able to take flight and partake in the regeneration of our living planet.

What lies ahead is nothing to fear, it is the return of the Buffalo, the round trip of the Eagle, and the uprising of the tipi. It is the rebirth of the Garden of Eden. Our children are not doomed to a nightmare of desolation, they have been chosen to dream the next age of creation, but they need you to wake up, right now, and get them to the bus before the alarm goes off. Please.

The toxins of hate, cross the ridges of pines,

The pains of defeat, in their beaten down eyes,

The people are wounded, down on their knees,

As the prayer warms the stones, with the healing they need.

*******

We settled in as camp was gearing up. Big weekend of action ahead. A gaggle of horse riders were headed in from afar, to stand in solidarity with the fight against the abuse of alcoholics. We'll have a bunch of riders, and their families, and community members who support the cause, gonna need a big spread for sure, "Anybody know how to make frybread?"

And just like that, I became the official frybread chef of Camp Justice. Well, there was a brief trail period, very brief, I got this recipe pretty figured out. And it needed to be on point, it was accompanying some sacred spirit food, strong medicine, taniga, and I hope you got the stomach of a Buffalo.

No, I mean, it's made with a Buffalo stomach. And an organ called the book, it's got all these flaps inside it, and as you turn the pages, you see the metamorphosis from grass to goop, pretty neat really. The tripe is thoroughly soaked and cleaned, so it's just the organs and the lining, kinda like chitterlings, and it doesn't smell the greatest while it's cooking either, but it tastes great while it's healing you on the way down. And just like eating fish eyes helps you to more clearly see the future, this dish works wonders for your upset stomach. But even after all the creepy crawlers I ate, I bet this is still grossing a few of you out, but is it really any grosser than eating a burger that was drinking from a fountain of liquid feces? I guess that didn't help either, huh?

We can take a break from the food stuff for a bit, and maybe spend some QT with Smokey around the horseshoe pit, he was the best at throwing the game that I've ever seen. It was so cool to get to spend time with him as a friend, and not in the face of the faceless enemy that had brought us together. He threw a few dozen ringers, and then we had to chill out in his tipi, first time we'd seen each other sweat this much, including that time at the frozen frontline of tyranny. And what I saw as I stepped inside made me quiver...

Smokey was a master craftsman. An artist. The place was overflowing with leatherwork, antler carvings, handmade knives and a plethora of assorted designs. I had no idea. I knew him as the tough guy who was the backbone of Rosebud, but now I saw the depth of his character, and his current project really was a leather quiver. He's still a warrior, even if his weapon of choice is a sinew threaded needle.

And Will, the leader and spokesman for the camp, he was a phenomenal artist as well. A fortysomething skater-looking indian, and his water color imagery was profound. My favorite was a native in a feathered war bonnet, and the face was covered with an illegal gas mask, but the real kicker, was the ledger paper that he painted each piece on. He'd acquired these old ledger books, the written records of the earliest colonial transactions on the rez, the proofs of purchase as they were seizing control of indian country.

This medium was a revival of an old tradition, one that had begun as those who had previously only painted on Buffalo hides, now had access to these discarded records of the overlayment of capitalism. What was once a gifting economy with no written receipts, was becoming a tit-for-tat trade-off that etched their fate in stone. Now that land was allotted and animals were owned, somebody had to keep up with how indebted the indians were to the capital letters of their conquering government.

*******

Will was passionate about his art, and the impact of the inspiration that he knew he had a responsibility to share, kinda like me, except that he had actual talent. He was also passionate about this whole alcohol thing. He'd had his own downward spiral with the disease that his native blood made him prone to. Just like how a colonial diet of refined sugar isn't good for anyone, and those least removed from a good way of life are the most susceptible to a diabetic coma, the predisposition of alcoholism and our country's exploitation of those who it poisons, is sickening. We didn't offer a toast of friendship, we offered the liquid dependence of a deadly detox. And personally, I think these 'spirits,' break your spirit, or your connection to it at least.

After not drinking all winter or spring, I had the tiniest taste of whiskey and I could feel it crawling down into my body, I could feel this negative energy trying to grab hold of my essence. I was as in-tune with myself as I had ever been, so I recognized this for what it was, a tearing apart of my soul. I only had a few drops though, and I Saged and prayed and recovered, so I wonder what it was like for those truly connected in the most sacred of manners.

In my previous colonized life, I had been slow to work my way up to whiskey, it was an acquired taste as I felt it burning my insides, but eventually it had burned enough of a hole that I could enjoy it. I never had anything like an addiction, I still cringed after most sips, and I would go months with only tipping peebers and IPAs.

I'd never really been much of a drinker before I started doing music for a job, and even then I kept it to the obligatory drink minimum of rock shows and barroom business meetings. I never drank alone. I didn't drink to forget, I drank to let loose and hang out with friends. I only drove too drunk one time long ago, and swore never again. Then I moved to a walking neighborhood with five music venues and eight bars, all on one block, and I drank for free. It never interfered with work, it actually helped me network with new clients, so I didn't have a problem, didn't think so at least, not by any definition I'd ever known.

The neighborhood was full of functioning alcoholics, most holding down successful careers, or working down the street slinging drinks to one another. The alcoholism was glorified, the vibrant nightlife economy depended on it, and if anyone ever thought they had a problem, their entire community assured them that this was normal. Here, I'll buy you a drink and you can forget all about your alcohol troubles. Crabs in a bucket.

They don't want to drink alone, they just want you to be on their level, they want you to loosen up and have a good time, why can't you just have one drink and forget about the troubles of the world for just one night? And the next night. And the next. Even the most functional of alcoholics know that they have a problem deep down, but as long as they have a drinking buddy, they don't have to face that demon, they can justify their own downward spiral as just another night out with the boys. Just having a little fun. And then the sickness they feel with themselves the next day is equally glorified, "Man, I feel so bad today, I must have had a great time last night." Proud of forgotten drink counts, and might as well pound another to get rid of this pounding headache.

But, as long as you can still drag yourself to work, to play your part in this system of mass destruction, well, that's the only thing that matters, at all. You have the money to live, and to drink, and you've earned the right to forget about just how messed up our entire way of life has become. Just enough to unwind and take the edge off, but what if that 'edge' is your spirit screaming at you, telling you that something is terribly wrong?

I feel the edge of anxiety when I see the ways that society is destroying the world around me, and unless I'm putting my energy into working on the solution, I can hardly function. That energy is my spirit, the vibration of my being, and the 'edge' is a feeling of unease as my heart is trying to compel me to do something about it. I don't think having a drink to numb my racing heartbeat is quite what it had in mind. It is exactly what those who don't want us following our hearts want though.

As I was writing that last book, I felt anxiety any minute I wasn't writing, except for the occasional side mission that my heart felt good about. Any idle time that I didn't have my notebook by my side, would drive me crazy, because I knew deep down that I had important work to be doing. If I had just popped a top every time I felt the pressure of an overwhelming task like saving the world from an overarching government conspiracy, I'd have never finished anything but a six pack.

But I was at least aware of the problem, even if the solution was outside of my grasp. Most within the cage don't see the fence line, so the 'edge' of it just seems like white noise that they want to drown out with a bottle, but even if your eyes can't see the crumbling walls around you, your inspirited heart knows full well of your imprisoned status.

And those whose vibrational disharmony is so strong that they need a pill to function in society, maybe that's because you are not meant to function in this dysfunctional society. I can't function in society anymore either, but I don't have an illness, I'm finally healthy enough to see that society is a disease. Why would I ever want to numb this feeling of connection, just so I could pay my debt to the destruction of the only thing real in this world?

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." -Jiddu Krishnamurti

*******

But I don't have any pain to numb. I didn't have a traumatic childhood, or an abusive marriage, or an alcoholic parent to hand me down a bottle. Or a government invasion that ripped apart every shred of my heritage, murdered my grandfather, kidnapped my grandmother, illegalized my prayer, poisoned my water, destroyed my food supply, treated me like an animal, and poured alcohol down my throat. So what do I possibly have to numb?

How can I blame my native brothers, who aside from their biological tendency to get fall down drunk, have every reason in the world to want to forget their life of hard knocks. Those that still feel a connection to our dying planet, who know how we are supposed to be treating our mother, who feel as related to the trees and the Bees as their Unci's, and they are forced to sit behind the bars of colonization and watch us destroy everything they hold the most sacred. Or they are forced to join in the demolition of the planet, so that they can afford to rent a caged piece of the planet that they know is meant to be free.

But that's just the way it is. The tribe has given up, so why bother... anybody but the bartender? The only thing you've experienced in the outside world is hate and oppression, and in the prison camp, you only know defeat, poverty, and an escape through alcohol. I couldn't say that I wouldn't make the same choice too.

And it's hardly a choice to many, I know so many natives who had their first drink before they were in their double digits, and full-blown alcoholics before they were teenagers. Many handed the family tradition by their broken parents, there's no hope out there, so you might as well have a sip of this. And if I thought the peer pressure in my world was unnerving, it's tenfold on the rez, as you're pulled back down by genetics, oppression, the sheer overwhelming percentage of alcoholics, and a lack of anyone sober enough to hang out with.

*******

But Camp White Clay was a sober community. A safe space. We had coffee and cigarettes and frybread. And prayer. And it was working. The liquor stores in white clay were ordered to shut their doors. Hooray, victory, next camp. Not so fast. This was a while back, a victory none the less, but now they were appealing the court's decision to essentially shut down an entire town's economy. But what about american jobs? Isn't it our right as US citizens to exploit a lower class for financial gain? It's kinda what we do.

And the real tricky part about navigating the legal system, when you have an unappealing skin tone in the white eyes of the law, is not that you're a second hand citizen in the land made of your ancestors, but it's that this town of twelve votes that actually count, is a tenth of a mile across the state line. You can't even call your representative, because even if he cared, it's out of his jurisdiction. How can a fractured reservation community of recovering indians, possibly have any hope of bringing change to a town of intolerance without crossing a line? Well, there was always Lakota Hope.

Lakota Hope Ministry \- a church of white missionaries that was actually in nebraska's voting district, and they also had grown tired of scraping dead indians up out of the streets of white clay. Wait, missionaries? WTF? Don't you remember what the last missionaries were all about.

Just in case you missed that sunday school lesson, let's recap. The catholic missionaries kidnapped the tribal kids, boarded them into abusive schools, and catholically molested them as they brainwashed out any remembrance of living in a good way. Or you better at least pretend that you forgot, under penalty of God's law. And this wasn't just back in the good old days, even my contemporary Unci Carolyn was locked into a boarding school, but she of course staged several escape attempts and got as far as four miles away, with en entourage of peers who shared my desire to follow this woman, even back then.

She's only in her seventies, and she was held prisoner by the church as they tried to squeeze the medicine out of her. They illegalized native spirituality, and forced christianity onto those who could see the destruction of life taking place in Jesus's name. But even still, some parents willingly sent their kids along, because the alternative was growing up to be an indian, which was punishable by death.

I know that my spiritual connection through the Lakota Sun Dance way is not for everyone, especially some of the bits about sacrificing flesh or privilege, it may be a little too barbaric for your sunday school class, and I would never dream of pushing it on another against their will. But somehow, it seems way more christian to offer a piece of myself for the good of my people, than to spread further suffering into a war torn world of intolerance. Actually, on second thought...

But that was way long ago, it's been legal to be Lakota since 1878, no, sorry, that was a typo, they've been able to pray openly since all the way back in 1978. We let Elvis perform his entire career of devil's music before we let indians pray for the health of our planet. I guess he did have his own fancy dance moves though.

And today's church doesn't condone such violent tactics of increasing tithe paying membership, at least this one didn't seem to. They had been working with Will, to provide healing for the broken community on the rez, maybe they carried a little ancestral guilt for the wrongs of their predecessors, and maybe there was hope for those Lakota heathens yet. And like I said earlier, lots of Lakotas are not connected to these old ways of praying, some are scared of the lodge because it was deadly to sweat until fifty years ago, so it was much safer to pass down a heritage of alcoholism. Or christianity.

There are plenty of christian indians. Forced out of their own way, they still managed to build a spiritual connection in the only way allowed. And it's kept many out of the bottle, so how can I discount its legitimacy in their lives? So it does seem important to give those who resonate with christianity a place to pray, though they do have to leave the rez to do it, and it's no Lakota christian running the show, in fact, when we congregated there with the parade of riders, it was only white people that stepped outside.

*******

Dear heavenly father, we are gathered here today... But I pray to Tunkasila, grandfather, though it sounds like the same sentiment. Or you say Mother Earth, while I say Unci Maka, Grandmother Earth. They're all our ancestors, though it seems mine were here first. Certainly appears to be an inconsequential difference in what is a similar dichotomy, but is it?

I look to my elders for guidance on a good way to live, those with the most experience, those who've been around long enough to gain the wisdom of patience, understanding, and humility. Those who've had the time to move past their ego. Those who are living in the fourth stage of human life.

First you're a baby, until you're 18 or 21, depending on if you're gonna die for your country or dive into a bottle. Still learning, still developing, and starting to pump up that ego a bit. Then you hit early adulthood where you know everything in the world, nothing can stop you, as long as you act like an adult and buy into a piece of the system. You got a job, you made money, you are one of the up and coming rulers of the world.

Keep it up just a bit longer and it'll be your turn to call shots as you approach 40, or 35 if you only want to be president. Now you're a proper adult, you made it, of course after all that paying into the system to get here, you're a little too invested to try any other way. And yeah, a lot of stuff sucks for a lot of people, but you had to live through it all too, so now it's your turn at the top. You only have a limited window of rule, but luckily you really do know everything there is to know, so you'll be able to shape the world in your superior image.

Your dad still tries to give you advice, what a senile fool, he's so lost in his old ways that he just doesn't understand all this modern technology. He wants you to slow down and appreciate the world around you while you still can, but he has no idea about the kind of money that can be made out of this world, the one that he just let sit around and take up space. Get with the times dad, people don't live a quiet life in the country anymore, we live in vibrant cities of cars and phones and factories and microwaves and murder and mayhem, why would we ever want to sit and relax in the woods? Or pray out there?

You know what, I think it's time for you to check into the retirement home, you're obviously too old to run the chaos out here any longer, and I bet you won't even put up much of a fight, because you've gotten so old and weak that it seems you've lost every bit of that ego that used to make you a great man. You used to run an empire, commanded great armies, conquered foreign lands, drove trucks and ran machines and pumped oil as you built giant skyscrapers. You taught me how to be a man, how to be a boss, how to run the slaves of the lower class, and my wife. You used to be strong enough to cut down a whole forest single-handedly, while you built entire towns for our most noble quest of populating the Earth. You used to be so tough and confident and completely in charge, no one questioned your authority, you were king of the Earth.

And now look at what's happened to you. You've lost your business savvy, you've lost the power to bend the world to your every whim, you just sit around and talk to animals and trees and the grandchildren who are almost as worthless as you are. You don't cut or dig or explode anything anymore, plus it takes you forever to make a decision that I can figure out without even thinking about it.

But in all honesty, you're even weaker than that, why you just sit back let mom call all the shots. What kind of a man have you become? The man I knew would never have listened to his wife, he'd have never let an enemy live, he'd have never left a dollar in the undeveloped world, he'd have continued to push the boundaries of the impossible, no matter how large the risk might be. You've gone soft in your old age, why would I ever consider listening to a piece of advice that you had to offer? You may be my elder, with far more experience as you've traveled your path and learned your lessons, but what does any of that have to do with ruling the world. And besides, God was a father, not a grandfather, and now even he's retired. Man's in charge now pops, so why don't you just go back to whittling away, and we'll let you know if we need your help.

*******

You follow all that? The colonized patriarchal power structure is built around the rule of middle aged man, and his ego, which is the mechanism that separates us from God, and permits our civilization to destroy the planet with a mid-life crisis. The matriarchal Lakota power structure is built around the wisdom of the elders, those who have shed their fading egos as they gained a lifetime of insight into what is truly important in this world. Which explains why colonizers were so adamant about murdering elders, as they were redefining the power dynamic of those who they could influence through temptations of the ego.

Just imagine a culture whose grandparents guided the tribe, they may not be hip to the latest fads, but they would have a far more complete understanding of what life is really about. They also would have the time to share wisdom with the young ones, while parents were out hunting and gathering, or whatever it is the indians did all day without jobs.

That's another bit of the tribal structure, the kids, they were raised by the entire tribe, not a single parent. Nobody's perfect, so nobody has all of the necessary components to raise a perfect child, but with a community full of aunties and leksis who all share their knowledge and life skills, and then the uncis and grampas to impart elements of the original instructions and their own understandings, it leaves little time in the life of a takoja to raise themselves on video crack and gang violence. Or alcohol.

In my own colonized life, I was extremely close to my grandfather, he influenced the man I became in great ways. My father did too, but in a much more practical sense, his ego attempted to shape me into a miniature version of himself, I even share his name. His legacy. His permanence in this world.

And from what I can tell, my grandfather had not been as kind and best-friendly to his own children, he had a responsibility to discipline, and had to spend sixty hours a week running the construction company that was building their future. But through the course of his journey, he reached a new understanding of what was important in life, I only know him to laugh and joke as he imparted his insights in a humble manner. A true friend, not an emperor.

On the flipside, my father's ego also strived to raise me in a good way, to impart insights that would set me up for success, so that his success as a father would be apparent to all. How'm I doing dad? And I'm not knocking my pops at all, he did a much better job with me than a lot of fathers out there by far, at least he was around and not off saving the world somewhere. I'm criticizing the society that he had no choice but to raise me in, one where the ego is in charge, so he needed to build mine in order for me to survive.

And he even saw the importance of removing us from it as much as he could. I was less grateful at the time, but thank you dad for everything you taught me, and for insisting that we grow up with as much connection to nature as we could. I wouldn't be who I am without it, or without you.

It also took a lot of shedding that colonized way of life to be able to say that. My ego would never have paid his a compliment. We're not too close nowadays, hopefully closer soon, and I'd imagine that as he approaches the next milestone of personal growth, that his humility is starting to grow stronger as his ego fades out of the picture.

Now I imagine my own life without the wisdom of my grandfather, I'd be much different for sure, my entire understanding of being a man would be based on a man who was still figuring it out himself. So what about an entire way of life that was passed down for eternity, through generation after generation of accumulated understanding, eldest to elder to a complete community of those who held sacred this connection to the Earth, through the ancestors that compose her, what do you think your future looks like if someone rolls through and massacres all of your old folks? And kidnaps your children. And offers a drink to help you forget whatever they couldn't manage to erase.

And then the kidnapping victims grow up and return to the rez, because society has no place for them, but the rez has only a defeated generation of alcoholics who have lost their way. And you have no way of helping them recover, because you have absolutely zero connection to the traditional Lakota way of life that would still resonate with the broken land, and the broken people, who still have a memory of living in a good way, but have been long removed from any understanding of native wisdom.

There are still a few that hold the connection, the understanding, the healing, the prayer, but the medicine families have all had to go into hiding, because they are the biggest targets of the genocidal government, the one that raised you to fit in with neither your own tribal roots, nor the colonization of the caucasians.

Might as well have a drink. Which created the next generation of elders with even less connection than the last, a downward spiral of destructive behavior, that just a few years ago held the entire catalog of universal secrets. You gotta give it up to america though, we really do know how to destroy every single thing that we touch, and we were just young men back then. Now that we've become fully ego-conscious, we've stepped it up from the white supreme firewater, to the white supreme firepower of an entire globe of cultural genocide, and just plain old normal genocide too. We have come into our own as we fulfill the destiny manifested by all four of our fathers, too bad they didn't have Tunkasila on their side.

*******

But this is a house of God, and regardless of how they feel about it, I know that the God I pray to, is the same creator that they know. And he's brought us together in this moment, to share in each other's energy and prayer, to show us that our paths are aligned and that our differences make us stronger, to bring my native family healing of ancestral trauma, and perhaps to decolonize the Jesus man in the process. But one thing's for sure, we're here to celebrate. The verdict was in, no liquor in white clay.

For real this time, they lost their appeal in a colonized court of law, who determined it unlawful to exploit the diseased natives in such an overtly grotesque manner. The treaty that established the reservation had created buffer zones around the perimeter, even across the state line, and somehow by the grace of one of our Gods, the judge actually upheld the law. I've of course personally witnessed treaty rights trampled, but this time they weren't, maybe there's hope for the Lakota after all. There's probably still some legal recourse to invalidate this judge's obviously erroneous decision, and definitely some illegal recourse that's far less appealing, and as lawless as TigerSwan had felt at camp, they still had to pretend to be good guys, the KKK doesn't.

A stand-off against the national guard was one thing, facing arrest and prosecution, but white clay was empowered to oppress by the white supremacists, who were double dipping as they both persecuted and profiteered in one swift movement. They were pissed. Some inferior indians just bested them through their own white man's way, what's this corrupted world coming too? Time to take matters into our own hands. And the camp was right next to dead indian alley, the two lane road that connected the rez and white clay, anybody could drive-by at any moment. And then we heard them coming.

I had just laid down in the tipi as I heard the engines roaring like a big ol' dinosaur, two of them, back and forth, up and down the stretch, who knows what's next? I jumped up to meet Will and Smokey by the fire pit, glad to have Smokey at the helm, his commanding presence and fearless demeanor empowered me to stand strong, no matter what was coming. Could be nothing, just a big show of small mindedness. Or they could pull into camp and circle the wagons, as the rest of their posse showed up with the crosses to burn us at. Or they could just start shooting from the road. I wonder how my white privilege plays out when I'm a traitor to the race.

As they sped by, Smokey headed up to the road. Be careful brother, it's legal to run over protesters now. And indians. He had the giant spotlight that we'd targeted the unlit plane with back at camp, blinding for sure, which is exactly what you want to do to a truck speeding in your direction. But we were in offensive defensive mode, and it wouldn't take too many more to outnumber us, and there's no way you're gonna come in after our women, children and elders without running over Smokey to do it, so might as well give them a fighting chance, it's only fair. I may be a tad paranoid at times, but we're standing in Pine Ridge, home to more than one indian massacre, and the last stand-off was within our lifetimes, well, Smokey's lifetime at least.

I stayed back a bit, between the rest of camp and the road, if something went down I was to rouse the troops, all ten of them. And I mumbled a prayer song, definitely couldn't hurt. Vroom, not allergic to light I guess, and then Will did something that was sure to bring it all to a head, one way or another.

*******

The Buffalo is sacred, the most sacred in fact, it provided the Lakota with not only food throughout the long winter, but an entire equipment list of supplies. The hides tanned in a sacred manner, with prayerful energy, and they saved the people from the winter as much as the meat did. Certainly a much more windproof tipi than the canvas of the post-colonial Buffalo extermination.

The poles are about the same as they were then, commonly made of Lodge Pole Pine, although I've even heard of lightweight bamboo poles, just don't think I'd want them in the high speed wind tunnel of the open prairie though. A visitor before me at camp had set up her tipi alone in record time, the onlookers were astonished, until they realized they'd been invasively bamboozled.

The poles are sacred too, just as much a living energy of the Earth as the Buffalo had been. When they lay on the ground, we don't step over them, we always walk around them. Sunwise preferably. They provide the strength of the tipi that protects us from the elements, much like Smokey provides the same for our family, and now the prayed-over poles would make up our frontline of defense in another way, as Will slid them across the path of whatever was coming next.

In all honesty, probably not a good idea, who knows what could go wrong, but there wasn't too many more options as the circling Sharks seemed to be getting more aggressive. Truck approaching, spotlight on the poles, not blinding the driver but attempting to fair warn of our defense mechanism. You're on the wrong reservation to be starting trouble, speed bump ahead. They didn't heed the warning, truck hit them at full throttle, arose such a clatter as our prayer poles jumped against his dirty underbelly, he sure slowed down after that though.

One time as a kid, I threw a blowpop at a passing motorist, they stopped and backed up, but I was tucked away under a parked car. Cursed and swore, but no choice other than to take off. Nowhere to hide here though. Nor can I. I'm here to protect the water, and the water protectors, Smokey's our frontline, but I'm manning Echo 2 right now. And I'm ready. This is what I'm here for. I'm done with the book, my last commitment, and I know that from here on out it's going to be an adventure, and not always safe, but I must stand strong. I carry no fear, I hold only prayer in my heart. Tonight is a good night to die.

But nah, these dudes were pansies, they took off after they realized that we weren't just gonna sit around singing prayer songs. You mess with my family, you better think it's a good night to die too.

Beings of light, on a straight narrow road,

Creation's vibration, tells them to slow,

The path becomes clouded, the light must evolve,

Returning to center, illusion dissolves.

*******

Not every step of evolution is going to seem like some giant leap of mankind, it happens over such long spans of time that from our internal perspective, the entire world seems to stand still. Inanimate. Stagnant. We see the differences in each other as a mechanism to pull us apart, but they are the adaptations, that combined, will bring us back together. Every step you take, contributes to the collected consciousness of creation. Your pathway of discovery is reflected in the path of humanity is reflected in the path of the universe.

If you observe your own timeline, not much changes one day to the next, seemingly insignificant details fill the pages of your life story. But by the end of the book, you have no doubt become a completely new character than the naive protagonist that set out on this adventure. You didn't feel your evolution happening at the time, but it is undeniable that you have risen to the adversity of life, and adapted to overcome it. You are not the adolescent you once were, you have become the hero that was inside you all along. Looking back from this perspective, it's obvious that the seeds were planted in the very beginning, every encounter experienced and situation navigated, pushed the growth of your being to the next stage of development. Every hardship you faced only strengthened your resolve, as it prepared you to survive this hero's journey of never ending adversity.

We are each on our own quest, seeking our own understanding, as we unravel the answers to our own questions of what it means to be an integral part of this great mystery. An interwoven thread of this inconceivably complex tapestry of existence. Upon close inspection, your path looks just like a piece of ordinary string, much like a day in your life appears to be no different than the next. But as you begin to step back, your widened perspective provides a much more dynamic view of your place in the bigger picture. And if you could manage to forget that you were even one of the threads at all, you would become enlightened to the scope of the complete creation. To the understanding that you are the creation. The entire image of existence was in the coding of your string all along. Every string has the code, that's how it's possible for it to weave itself together with such grace.

Every cell of your body has the same genetic DNA information that composes all of your being. All different kinds of cells with unique purposes that work together to create you. The entire program to instruct the construct of your infinitely complex body and mind, is spiraled around in each microscopic bubble of that same body and mind. The cells of your liver grow and perform their function without having to worry about your toenails, but they have the entire blueprint in their heart. Your liver is not something separate from you, it is you, it is a vital component to your existence and you could not live without it.

The DNA of creation is within you. The DNA of the universe. The DNA of God. The entire blueprint of the everything, is in every cell that composes it. The secrets of the universe are already in your heart. You already have the complete picture of the tapestry that you are helping to create. The strings are the tapestry, it is nothing without the fibers of our being. You are not simply some solitary thread floating in space, you are an infinite cosmic creation, but in order to experience the lifeline of our thread in time, our electrical conductance has been encased in an insulation of ego.

Our ego shrouds us from the finished product of our creation, but it is not meant to disconnect us altogether. It is a vibrational mechanism that allows us to experience unique perspectives of the exact same universal energy, and that same energy pours through each of our egos. We are all the same being of light, not similar, we're the exact same being. God, the universe, cookie monster, whatever you want to call us, that same ball of energy is inside each of us, at the same time that we are inside of it. I know, it's pretty heady stuff.

The complete universe is inside you, pouring out through a filter of ego created by DNA, astrology, and conditioning, which gives you a personal perspective through which to explore the universe that we inhabit. We are God inside, exploring God from the inside.

*******

But we got lost somehow. We are supposed to be connected to the big picture of the great mystery, but our vibrational connection has been severed and our egos are convinced that we abandoned them. Man is under the impression that he is separate from creation, separate from nature, separate from God, and he is fearful without the assurance of universal love. The ego will fight to survive, it is scared of death, because it believes it is the entirety of your being. It has lost sight of its role as a mere conduit of consciousness.

Some cultures of course understood this, and came up with some original ways to combat the ego's grip on their connection to Wakan Tanka. The sweat lodge humbles you as it purifies your heart, your prayers are blasted outward, but it also vaporizes your ego as it pierces your soul. You emerge reborn from the womb of Unci Maka, humility in hand, as you gasp for what could be your last breath. The sacrifices of the Sun Dance step it up a notch, or seven, it's tough for that ego to hold on when a train of Buffalo skulls are tugging back at it. A Peyote meeting is about more than melting faces, as your heart is connected to something larger than your head. When you are up on the hill for hembleciya, your ego is starved out while you face it head on. And indigenous rituals from around the globe share the same ego-reducing properties, as they provide a window into the great cosmic mind.

The colonized headspace, however, is so intrinsically egocentric that we believed the Sun to revolve around us. And we still think the Earth does. The ego is celebrated, as only the strongest become celebrities to worship, and only the strongest of those become president. We revel in our revolutions against the planet and our mastery of the universe, we proudly defy the laws of nature, and we openly claim the throne of our kingdom. We put chains on the entire circle of life as we quarantined God to sunday visitation. We are so full of ourselves that we can't feel the spirit within, yet we still claim to be God incarnate.

The ego is the darkened filter through which light experiences life. Even the biggest egos of science still can't figure out exactly what a photon is, particle or wave, or neither. It's one of the greatest mysteries of science, which is purely the study of the material world, which is purely a prism for light to refract through. Of course you can't measure its empirical properties with some gizmo in this dimension, it's the source of existence for the whole thing, including that gizmo.

We can't quite figure out the light of expansion, but we can easily test for the inflation of the darkness, so I guess that must be the only one that actually exists. The tools of the material world can only prove the presence of the material world, yup, you must be a material girl. And the more our ego assures itself that it is the ultimate decider, the more disconnected we become from any connection that proves otherwise. And after a few thousand years of egostatistical analysis, the darkened hearts of self-servitude have developed scientific methods of ensuring their seat on the throne.

The prince of darkness is but the first creation of light, the worthiest of adversaries through which we project the beams of time. The dynamic of this relationship is most unique, the dark lord of the universe is the only product of love that is destined for failure. By its very purpose and design, its deterioration is directly correlated to the evolution of every particle in existence. With every step of our transition back into oneness, the procreator of separation loses strength, as his grip on the material world begins to fade. This is a most undesirable fate for an energetic force whose power is only second to God's.

The darkness has been permitted to reign supreme as we prepare for the upcoming transition, but as its cycle of control draws to an end, it will stop at nothing to continue its chokehold on the light of creation. It's in its DNA. Like a nearly eternal space robot programmed to prevent its own demise, and as its expiration date nears, it becomes desperate to cling to its final drops of artificial sentience. And those who have become lost in the cloud of material power, those who understand the vibrational nature of the universe but prefer to retain their place atop a crumbling tower of third dimensional wealth, they are attempting to harness the ego-driven race of technology, to dampen the uprising of light that flows through the heart of humanity.

And they're doing a pretty good job. The vibrational interference of modern colonization has put exponential restraints on the ascension of our internal frequency, but, lucky for us, the universal energy field that empowers evolution, is rising at a much more accelerated rate. But it is only going to awaken those that seek harmony between their own physical being, and the literal vibrations of Unci Maka.

*******

Much like how every single seed contains the genetic information that can evolve into an entire forest, the code of your DNA is outfitted with the necessary components to progress the evolution of the universe. The seed of life lies dormant within you, and like any seed, it is awakened by its elemental relationships with natural vibration. I'm not talking about some metaphorical comparison of spiritual connection to an acorn, your physical body literally needs the same three elements of life in order to progress the evolution of its being.

Water, obviously, it is life itself, and it is absolutely vital to the reemergence of the light within. It is the mechanism that allows the growth to flow. It is the super conductor that enables the transfer of energy and cosmic consciousness to guide our evolutionary path.

The Sun, our local ambassador of universal energy, and the one with the best perspective of the tapestry of life on Earth. His power propels every single movement that has ever taken place on our planet. His vibrations can be felt as they are absorbed by our skin, but we take them in more efficiently through our energy consumption of a converted wavelength. The Sun pours down the most updated information of evolutionary frequency, and it is processed by the plants of our planet. They hold the most recent iteration of universal understanding, and as we partake in the feast they provide, we too are enabled to become one with everything.

And Unci Maka, our planet, the Earth beneath our feet. And as we physically dig our toes into her surface, we become rooted in the sentient world around us. She nourishes the development of who we will become, and as we rest our head upon her body, our own heartbeat begins to align with hers. There is a natural flow of energy between our beings, a quite literal transfer of electricity, she feeds our soul as we feed hers, and this back and forth vibrational relationship keeps us mentally, physically, and spiritually in-tune with the entirety of her heavenly body.

And as coincidence would have it, the very entities who stand to gain the most from our subservient disconnection, are the very ones who poison our water, air, and Earth. The oil they've convinced us we're addicted to, destroys all three, as we rush to the pumps for fear of gas shortage. The water runs thick with toxic sludge, which they toxify further with plastic and fluoride, but we're happy to pay the price because it's the 'smart' solution. The revolting fumes of industry ensure that solar energy remains a joke, as chemtrails further shield the planet from its creator.

And the planet herself, oh my, she's the largest target of vibrational warfare. They've intercepted her blueprint and modified her DNA, brainwashed her people into encasing her body in a forcefield of anti-vibrational matters, and they violently rip apart her flesh as they remove the energy centers of her being. And for some reason, they seem to concentrate their effort onto the homes of the indigenous people of the planet, the uncivilized people who still live with the Earth, the people of prayer and ceremony and living in a good way. Wonder why?

*******

The european takeover of the planet didn't begin in america five hundred years ago, it began in europe long before that. There were indigenous communities all around, they even had tipis over there, although the addition of the smoke flaps was an original american design. Even white people are capable of living in harmony with the Earth, probably still no rhythm though. They didn't just all of a sudden wake up and decide to be civilized, they were assimilated into it the same as everybody else, by force.

Who even knows how it began, the whole power structure of global domination, but obviously somebody came up with the idea of ownership and superiority. Maybe it was a single man, who believed that his God gifted him the entire world as his domain, to rule over all of life on Earth. Or maybe it was some slithering whisper that convinced the man that he could have the knowledge required to be a god himself, no longer an equal to the rest of the filthy animals. Or maybe it wasn't even a lone ego, maybe there was a whole tribe, like thirteen families or something, you know, like the thirteen families that each owned one of the original colonies in america. Or the thirteen families that supposedly make up the illuminati, that supposedly control the shadow government, that supposedly have been pulling the strings since the advent of puppets, that supposedly never existed. Either way, somebody decided to be in charge, like a king, or a pope, and spread their doctrine of compliance as they conquered their neighbors.

Assimilate or die, today's not really a good day to die, so we'll take door number one. Well, definitely no more praying to the dirt, we pray to the king now. Or the pope. So, no more living with the natural cycles of the Earth, or eating her abundant bounty, for free. Nope, you gotta work for your dinner now and gotta give the king his cut. And the pope. Oh yeah, you're gonna be pretty sick for a while, but just until your body adapts to eating foods with no naturally occurring vibrations.

Oh, vibration shmibrations, we told you to cut out all that hippie talk, and we better not catch you praying around the tree. Plus, we're digging the tree up anyway, turns out that it's coincidentally atop a giant ore deposit, and we're taking it to the bank. And the king. And the pope. Don't be silly, the Earth's not alive, she won't feel a thing, and neither will you after a few generations of disconnection from the energetic union created between the Sun and the Earth.

Freakin hippies, I tell ya. You can't even decide if the copper mine powered your prayer, or if your silly circular ceremony poured power into the planet, doesn't matter to us, there's a fortune under there. A fortune is only worth something if others want it though, so we'll get you strung out on debt and convince you that slaving away is your only chance to get ahead of private property. So yep, got everyone chasing the money to survive, while they keep on forgetting anything about their vibrational entanglement with the web of life that provided everything they could ever need, plus we have alcohol, all hail the king. And the pope.

And now we can take this show on the road. Systematically spreading our policies of superiority, enslaving the land and farming the people, outlawing prayer and extracting energy, then the booze and sugar and missionaries, and before you know it, an entire Earth of Earth worshipers have become disconnected from the vibrational connection they shared with their living planet. Their home. Or what they call, their "mother." All around the world they held the same connection, the same energetic relationship, the same ceremonial process of energizing the ground beneath their feet, but no worries, we'll just build cathedrals around their 'magic' sacred sites, and they'll have no choice but to tithe on sunday, as their generational disconnection breeds subservience to the king. And the pope. And if people all around the world believe in the church, then it must be real.

And now we're baby stepping our evolution all the way from the big bad bang of primordial ooze, through millions of years of primate fiascos, found our roles as caretakers of life and conduits of energy, maintained harmony and balance as we held onto our understanding of universal cellular structure, praised and prayed and prancersized as our love for the Earth propelled us into the future, every day brighter than the last and her song somehow more beautiful than before. At least until the patriarchal efficiency of complete compliance bulldozed the diversity of life on Earth, caged our hearts, and began farming the greatest monocrop in the history of herstory.

And that brings us to the present, the now, and today's the day that you get to decide, it's the only day you can do much at all, in fact. You can either follow the herd as they blindly march to the slaughterhouse, or you can wake up, cut the fence, and regain your freedom as you resume your role in the destiny of our living planet Earth. The choice is yours, the time is now, today is a good day to live.

*******

And all that being said, not every step of evolution is going to seem like a giant leap of mankind, so please hold your judgements until the ride has come to a full and complete stop. It may seem to have even taken a step backwards at times, but we'll figure it out in the end - today we cooked frozen pizzas. I don't mean the kind of frozen pizzas I began my evolution as a camp chef with, I mean the cardboard facsimiles that offer just enough vibration to etch a tombstone. But even a day of colonized cuisine can be chock-full of cosmic coincidence.

I was walking behind the cook tent as Smokey pointed to the ground, "You recognize that thing?" OMFG, no way, it was the very grill top that I'd used all winter at Standing Rock. Lightening blizzard filet mignon, nine-tiered wedding cake, and of course midnight elk pizza, and they'd managed to save it for me as the bulldozers rolled down 1806. Needed a good scrubbing though, and it had been starting to fall apart even at camp, but that described most of us by the end of it all. What a reunion, almost better than rejoining Smokey's ranks, so to celebrate, we ate meat.

Burgers for dinner and pizza for dessert, I had mastered the from-scratch version baked inside a freezer, but these were gonna be a different beast. Kinda wanted to wrap them in foil, but not only is it destructive to manufacture, it's toxic to cook with. The disposable wrap is covered with chemicals, but aluminum is simply not good for us to consume, or consume out of, expensive cookware included, can't quite remember why though. But I've been eating out of it my entire life, in the colonized scouts we even used to wrap up meals and toss them straight in the fire. Though, we also boiled an egg by melting a styrofoam cup, good point.

Just because you can buy the products of R.J. Reynolds Wrap at walmart, doesn't mean that they are not poisonous to all they come in contact with, it's almost a guarantee, in fact. Does seem a little silly to be so particular with our toxin intake while we eat the complex inferiority of a monosodium substitute, but then again, we are literally camping in a radiation field.

*******

The leader of the camp at the Wind Cave stopped by one afternoon, with a geiger counter. I'd already seen the piles of yellow uranium refuse on the other side of the river, large enough 'deposits' that Smokey could point them out without the binoculars that we used to monitor dapl's ridge line rendezvous. The 'yellow cake' is left to poison the surface and the water, it is the waste product of uranium mining, and it happens to be threatening the underground Oglala Aquifer. A one-time-use water supply that stretches from here to texas, but it's been continuously exploited and depleted by agriculture for a long long time anyway.

The government has protocols on safe uranium consumption and nuclear fertilization, which would obviously have our best interests in mind, always, so we used their minimal radiation poisoning standards and did a little testing of our own. They sent me down to the river with the device, obviously the closest to a canary in the bunch, and I reported back a reading of 73 something or others, which wasn't really any more toxic than the rest of the rez. Figured it would be the highest there, seemed to be the target audience of nuclear dispersion, but I guess that could mean that the diluted vibrations had already washed downstream to the people. Just for fun, we checked the sunwise circle of our sacred fire, Buffalo skull and all, and surprise surprise, we'd been singing and praying right above a vortex of 91. And we'd gotten a glowing review.

Now, I don't know much about science, pretty obvious thus far, so I can't definitively make up any more conjectures of contamination. Coulda been the years of surface sludge left by the extractors, coulda been the unmined uranium below our sacred space, or coulda been the energy flow we'd been building with our prayers around the peta wakan, connecting the Earth and sky in a toroidal flow of love and rainbows, either way, the fire was the hottest point in camp. So we could wake up any day mutated into Turtles, or retuned to some new radio station of the revolution, or who knows, maybe we'd arise one morning to the Sun returning our wake up song.

*******

When you travel in an off-grid network built by those on the outskirts of sanity, you're certain to cross paths with some characters, there's even crazies that believe in intelligent life on Earth. There was one dear spastic brother, who although he'd never seen a birth certificate to confirm his age, did manage to remind us daily of his recipe for commod-beef steak sandwiches, which to his credit, was the best I'd ever tasted the absolute worst quality of so-called meat.

We agreed to provide the indians with some minimal rations to make up for plowing over their garden, but the contract was written in our superior language, which allowed us to redefine just how barebones the minimal requirements for life could be. If mainstream america were exposed to the ridiculously low-quality substitute for nutrition that we provide, it would make them sick, but it's just for the indians, so who cares?

Plus, if they don't like it, they can just get a job like the rest of us have to do. Who do they think they are, that they don't have to contribute to the mass-extinction event that the rest of civilization's been building towards? Or they could just go hoot and hollar and dance around the Sun, no food or water for days, bet that'll shut 'em up real quick.

Quite the contrary really, it invigorates them as they become energized by the flow of vibrations from the Sun. It travels through their light conducting bodies, is passed to the tree as they raise their arms, pours into the Earth as it replenishes her power, and travels back to them through the 'souls' of their feet. A localized model of the planet's toroidal magnetic field, a scientifically proven example of unseen energy directly enabling the evolution of life on Earth. I'm not making this stuff up, magnets are real.

They don't eat or drink for four days, and they don't die, they become alive in a way previously unknown. Or during hebleciya, again no food or water for four days, although my Sun Dance brother said that if he could dance through the hunger, I should be able to stand still no problem. Plus, there's actually science about it, from actual doctors and stuff.

*******

Fasting is a big part of many spiritual practices, even some of the big ones, although just giving up belly button lent seems like an easy way out. And everyone knows that there's no room for science in church, which must have been why Buddha, Mohammed and Jesus all went out into the wilderness to do it. But when your church is the lodge, and sunday dinner is a walk though the abundant buffet of life, it does make sense to discover the true line between taking what you need and living in excess. Plus, it's science.

Ketosis - it's a state of metabolism in which your body is powered by ketones instead of glucose, and can be reached after three days of zero caloric consumption. Your body begins processing it's stored energy in a new way, digestion is no longer zapping most of your power, and your mind moves into an altered state of clarity. Even secular nutritionists tout the health benefits of four day fasting; a reinvigoration of the mind; your body begins to heal itself as it burns up the damaged cells first, including the purging of cancer; and somehow the spirit of the ancestors is also recharged, which explains why the original instructions included the process long before Joe Rogan ever mentioned it.

Also explains a bit of scientific understanding of how some silly dance-off, or a solitary game of king of the mountain, could physically enable your heart and mind to open themselves up enough to receive a vision from the spirit world. Well, maybe not exactly science, unless we just call it a hallucinogenic delusion that coincidentally relates to real life, and randomly provides guidance that empowers you to live a healthier existence among the plants and animals that you most certainly don't share any type of unseen connection of symbiosis with. Oh yeah, that sounds like science to me.

Or like my daydream about some magical garden that can provide for all of us to eat the content of our hearts, certainly the science books funded by your agricultural empire would deny the possibility, and in the current version of our gridded life, it would be tough. Especially when the pockets of our captors have got us strung out on an even more intoxicating substance than alcohol, meth, or even coffee. We're addicted to food.

I love it, can't live without it, I would give up most anything to keep it in my life, and most give up the entire essence of their being just to line it up on the table. We feel it so vital to who we are, that we swim in the decadence of our colonized cuisine. We watch programming of commercial kitchens, interspersed with the persuasion of kitchen commercials, yet no mention of our family members that directly suffer because of our disease. Forget the plants and animals or the Earth herself, which it seems we already have, but even those in the inferior majority of our own superior species, are forced to pay the cost of our addiction to excess.

And then when you do start to question the poverty and inhumane conditions we subject our human subjects to, everyone around you laughs it off, sure, it sucks for them, but we love food, what are you gonna do? It's hard to acknowledge a problem, when all of your friends are functioning addicts, asleep to the toll that their lifestyle is having on those unable to step outside of the factory farms that supply your food chains.

It's difficult to see another way, when the pusher man has made it so easy to lose yourself in a sea of cattle. They increased supply far beyond demand, and then demanded that we eat more. Our population inflated in more ways than one, and even as it made us physically ill, they just sold us more drugs to ease the pain, as we continued to stuff their wallets with our mouths. They eliminated any competition on the block, and cut their product with toxic filler as they pumped up the cost per instagram, and still we beg for more. We will do absolutely anything for it, we sell ourselves short as we sell out our own mother, but how can we ever escape this nightmare we've spiraled into?

*******

I really do love food, I love to cook elaborate meals, it's my whole new camp career and inspiration for what I consider authorship. Of course all the mechanized monocropping is bad, but soon enough we'll be waking up to that fact, and putting an end to the devastation that we've let spread far too far. But the problem is bigger than that. Our eyes have grown larger than our stomachs, and now our stomachs have caught up. We need to be eating less. And the key tone to making that not as scary as it sounds, even to me, is to start eating better. When your diet is composed of fast food and processed packages, it takes a lot more empty calories to fill you up.

And the rigid columns of a structural calendar and a standstill timeclock, leave plenty of time to burn up backstocked glucose through the winter, when like most animals, we're naturally evolved to go through periods of regenerative keytosis, instead of cold and flu season. But even if you eat from the seasonal produce section, the products of agriculture simply contain less nutrition, and require more Sun, water, and Earth to survive. A naturally occurring diet is better for us, which means we need less filler, which means there's more to go around for the rest of the planet.

It also means less meat. We've been taught that a dinner entree is not complete without it, it is what the entire meal is generally centered around, and my own brother Smokey even questions, "Where's the meat?" I love meat, I think that we can rightfully consume it in a good way, not holding it hostage, but centering the circle in a sacred manner. And the Lakota certainly held it sacred as it ensured their survival, but even they didn't eat it everyday. When it's held in that manner, as the life that it is, you respect and honor its sacrifice, and you understand that today you saw the Buffalo on the horizon, today you eat meat, but tomorrow might not be your day. You'll be just fine, and it will inspire you to hold these moments of ingesting a member of the animal nation, in the most sacred of manners. It is a luxury item of living in a good way, not your privileged birthright. Just remember that people are meat too.

*******

I'll share another dilemma I've been thinking about, and I'm not quite sure where I'll land on it. Fried Chicken. Love it. Southern tradition. Obviously unhealthy and currently breaks a whole list of ethical meanderings, but let's just look at the overall concept.

Let's assume that we release the Chickens into the garden, then I have no moral issue with fairly squaring my meal away. Also need an egg for breading it, no problem if I can find its nest too. Breading, so I tend a community patch of wheat, find a salt flat, and assumedly gather the rest of the ingredients, build a fire, bake a loaf, crumble it, and now I have the requirements for my pulitzer-published three part breading mixture. Need oil, lots of it, and obviously most are toxic to both us and the planet. No Coconuts at home yet, so let's figure that I can either press some out of the oily Walnuts, or I'll just render some Bear fat.

Ok, got all the stuff without overstepping the bounds of harmonious living, should be able to fry to my clogged artery's content, but is this not excess? First a Chicken, then an egg, bread crumbs(wheat, salt, water, fire), and oil. All fair trade items, all collected and consumed according to the laws of nature, but couldn't I just have cooked the Chicken on an open fire? Wouldn't that have left a whole gamut of nutrition available to the rest of life? And wouldn't it have been even healthier for me? But I love fried Chicken. I don't know the answer yet, even in my own wavy walk through life, but I'll let you know when I think I've got it all figured out.

I do know that cooking food removes nutrients, which increases the amount we need to consume. Some foods are more easily digestible when heated, but some are just fine right out of the garden. So as we transition into a lifestyle of eating naturally occurring vibrations of the ultimate knowledge of the Sun, it's probably smart to eat as much of it as we can raw. And, also, we might just start getting our nutrition directly from the source. Only the most hipster of Sun-to-table eateries.

*******

This is gonna sound nuts, even compared to the rest of my nonsense, and I'm not even saying I'm sold on it, but I am certainly in no position to doubt the energizing power of the light that fuels our entire planet, as it flows through every cell of our bodies. It's called sungazing, and there are people who do it in lieu of eating from the Earth. One of my more out-there sisters at camp told me about it, and after a few days of commodity meals, I'm more than considering it.

They say that you look directly into the sun for up to 44 minutes, barefoot, just after sunrise and just before sunset, which I know to be the scientific solar position whose angle allows the least uv rays to penetrate the atmosphere. Sounds blindingly crazy, though the 44 minutes must be worked up to by starting with ten seconds and adding another ten each day, and supposedly there are people that have been doing it without food for eight years.

It boosts melatonin and serotonin, and actually increases the size of your pineal gland, which explains why priests and shamans have practiced it since egyptian times. And I personally know those who stare into the Sun for four unfed days and feel full of life, so I can't blindly dismiss it. What if this next step of radiated evolution lifts us up above the need to eat? Just some food for thought, but for now, I think I'd rather think about frybread.

*******

I was deep into my tenure as frybread aficionado of the camp. I loved it when a new elder would show up and obviously doubt the sanity of the sungazing leadership, as some white dude fried the bread for dinner. I never failed to astonish, and my bread may have personally been responsible for healing the racial divide of generational trauma caused by my own people. Eh, I do what I can.

And sometimes I do what I can't. What no one has ever done. My campmates had grown complacent in my continued delivery of this superior white flour creation. Gotta step it up. And gotta manifest into this world yet another of my daydreamed delicacies. Yet another fruitioned fantasy that I was pretty sure was gonna be pretty tasty. Yet another iteration of evolution, as I progressed my personal development of campfired pizza. Yep. Frybread pizza.

Indian pizza, developed by a white dude, but if I keep cooking like this, I'll get adopted into the tribe soon enough. I took a double sized ball of dough and tossed it out like a pizza crust, super thin in the middle and a thick crust around the edge. Threw it in the hot oil, but knew that the thin center would burn first, so I kept the pan off to one side and kept rotating the dough every thirty seconds - perfection.

Thin and crispy in the middle, puffed up and crusty on the outside. Then I topped it with homemade sauce and the classic pepperoni and cheese. The bottom was already done, so I slid it under the woodstove in our small community tent. Fifteen later we slid out the absolute best frybread, or pizza, that I had ever made. We all grabbed a slice as I loaded another under the oven, crispy bites of heaven and then a fluffy frybread crust.

Couldn't have possibly pretended to design a better creation. I told you to be patient with this whole evolution thing, and there's still a few adaptations ahead, like, we need a bigger cooking space to prepare them for a full-sized resistance, but frybread pizza is here to stay. You're gonna want to track me down at whichever camp I'm at right now. Good luck.

Dollars and pennies, and nickels and dimes,

The days of our lives, the price of our time,

Machines turning profit, with every bomb,

How much will it cost, to rebuild our mom?

*******

The Black Hills are not for sell. The most sacred energy center of the Lakota nation cannot be bought. So we just stole it. Yeah, sure, we stole the whole country, but I ain't got time for all that. I don't even have enough paper to cover the debt to the planet we incurred as we extracted every bit of life we could, and what an abundant source of life's greatest mysteries it was. The Mountains of Eden. Vitality abounded. Food sprang from every curve of the Earth, and springs fed her flowing cycles of growth. Her beauty radiated towards the heavens, and Father Sun poured his loving energy into her womb, which kinda resembles a private cave network of emergent properties. The essence of life was reborn here again and again. I don't know if the Lakota were literally birthed in these mountains, but I understand that their non-literary existence was transformed every time they stepped foot into this energetic vortex at the center of their world.

They didn't live there though, it was far too sacred for that, the stronghold of Earthly power was reserved for prayer and ceremony. They knew that their own footprint could drown out the fountain of life, they also knew that the energy emanating from the heart of creation, was pushing them along the path of most existence. Their commitment to the ritual honoring of Unci Maka and Tunkasila, grandmother and grandfather of all that we know, kept them coming back for more, as they became the conductors of an electric circuitry that recharged the liquid ground beneath their feet. Their pure heart vibrations made the land stronger, and the land returned the favor. The ceremonies held here, prepared the people to carry prayer in their heart as they journeyed beyond the hillside, it kept them connected to the cosmic understanding of Wakan Tanka, but it also updated their operating system. The souls of their essence, their heart of creation, the code of existence that ensured their survival in an always changing world of fluid motion - it evolved their DNA.

*******

Unci Maka is in a constant state of flux. Ever-changing. Not a thing is permanent in this entire universe. We live in a liquid lucid dream, and while we have the capacity to manifest the pathways of existence, it seems pretty egotistical to imagine a world where we are the final step of creation. And boring. What beauty is there in damming the flow of life on our planet? Of building a home whose technologies will become obsolete, as you sentence your descendants to the backwards belief of your own degeneration? Of removing the mountains of maternal instinct that she was still pushing to new peaks? No, there is nothing permanent in this world, including us, which for some reason terrifies us to the point of solidifying our place in herstory. We're so convinced that we're the star of the show, that we insist on canceling the remaining seasons of the longest running soap opera ever.

I'm talking about the future of the planet. I'm talking about the future of humankind. We are one and the same. We poison them both at the same rate, for an attack on one is an attack on the other. We toxify her water, which infiltrates our own intake. We are polluted by the progress of profit, which enables us to pump destruction into the world of tomorrow. We spread manmade miracles throughout the course of her evolution, and this manufractured disconnection from reality, inbreeds the disillusion of human superiority. The more we insist on slowing the tides of change on our own planet, the less room we have for the growth of our own species.

The concrete domestication of life on Earth, is drastically reducing the amount of pure solar energy that she is able to translate into a language that we may be able to understand. The literal vibrations emanating from the planet, both through the naturally occurring foods of genuine evolutionary superiority, and through physical contact between our bodies and hers, are the driving forces behind the advancement of our genetic coding. The spirals of the sun propel the spirals of the Earth, whose spirals push out through the constantly developing DNA spirals of the plant nation, who we consume in order to update our own microscopic spirals at the core of each cell that defines us.

She is reprogramming us to become the fittest to survive, which might have to mean gaining the ability to drink oily water, but whatever the next step will be, only those connected to her love song will receive the upgrade. Those living in the concrete cubicles of high-rising electric bills, consumed by the convenience of fake food and a fast-paced lifestyle, those that answer the call of capitalism while sending the pull of their heartstrings to voicemail, they're simply not going to survive the coming times. Just as our fasting bodies purge the cancerous colonies from our colons, our planet is preparing to rid herself of the obsolete models of corrupted viral outbreaks, so you should probably update your operating system.

If you are caught up in the machine right now, feeling that something big is coming but unable to break away, instead thinking that you'll have time to escape the devastation when it begins to rain down upon us \- you won't. It is already happening. Once it becomes obvious to the mainstream, it will be too late to jump ship. If your heart is beckoning you, you need to follow it, today, you need to get as far down your path of personal evolution as you possibly can. Do not put it off until tomorrow, do not wager your survival against the fallacy that financial wealth will be able to protect you from the future. When the time comes, no amount of money will be able to fund your exodus to Eden. The streets will be clogged with the lost souls of those that preferred to remain asleep, as their heart was screaming for them to wake up. It will be difficult to navigate an exit strategy over the communal chaos of fear, a physical attunement with the loving energy of our vibrating planet is your only chance of survival. Period.

Nothing is permanent in this world. Those that cling onto the illusion that they can construct a reality that will hold up until the end of life as we know it, will have succeeded. The rest of us will be crossing a threshold into an entirely new dawn of life on Earth. If this sounds scary to you, it is because you do not have a strong enough connection with Unci Maka to listen to her guidance, you should work on that.

I am reassured every single day that I am in the exact right place upon the surface of the planet. I have manifested miraculous journeys that have brought me to an even closer vibrational connection to the consciousness of our mother. She will be there for me when the time comes, because I have learned how to listen to her. I have no fear of the coming days, she will call me into action just as she did fifteen thousand to Standing Rock, or how she brought us back there for an unknown gathering of those who have followed their hearts ever since. I'm not worried for me, I'll be getting a heads-up, but you should probably get on the emergency contact list before it's too late.

*******

And none of this is new news. Ancient civilizations were built around the understanding that cosmic connection was the only real progress that occurred on Earth. Mayan calendars, egyptian pyramid schemes, giant circular stone structures that were mysteriously un-henged by someone who didn't like the flow of celestial light, the high-energy temples that routed water through the prayer before it poured into the garden, and even the uneducated savages who dance around in the Sun as they claim that their sacred hillside of scientifical energy abundance, is somehow the source of life as we know it.

The sacred sites of indigenous cultures worldwide, house exceptionally strong energetic componentry. Elements of high frequencies that provided them with the strongest connection to universal understanding available. This is not some archaic belief of dirt worshiping heathens, even the christian colonizers knew it, which is why they built their places of worship directly on top of the stolen energy centers, often encasing them in concrete rooms with no doors, attempting to discontinue the connection of the locals, as they converted them to a monetary belief system of subservience that separated man from God.

Then the heavenly forefathers outlawed prayer as they began removing the scientifical energy sources from the defeated lands, which continues into today. Civilization civilizes the indigenous by destroying their vibrational connection to the planet, while violently removing energy from below the Earth's surface on these seemingly strategic mineral reserve-nations. And to any civilians who question the authority of colonization, they are simply directed to the reminder of white supremacy etched into the most sacred stone atop the birthplace of the Lakota nation.

And they rush more and more to deplete the connection between humanity and the energy field around the globe, because those atop the patriarchal power structure, don't want us to evolve outside of the cages they have locked us in for so long. They will lose their authoritarian control over humankind, as we raise our frequency beyond their grasp, and advance past the stagnation of permanence that they have used to drain the lifeforce of our planet. The darkness will no longer reign supreme over the Earth, as she resumes her role as the Goddess of light, and fills every cell of her being with the heightened vibrations of tomorrow. And that, dear friend, is why the Black Hills are not for sell.

*******

Sure didn't stop them from making an offer though. And then a counter offer. At first we just took them at gunpoint over the dead bodies of their defenders, whose dying language offered little room for negotiation. The gold rush more or less solidified the deal, and fueled the road crews that paved the way for a new national agriculture forest, that way white folks have a place to park their RVs when they come to celebrate that time the cowboys beat the redskins.

We actually did at some point, realize that the unfairness of our skin tone might have overstepped the bounds of our God-given privilege, so we decided to offer a consolation prize to replace the only thing that ever mattered in the eyes of those silly dirt worshiping indians. In 1980, the supreme court ruled that we had in fact illegally stolen the land as we broke our treaty obligations, which we claim to be the "supreme law of the land," but we only meant for that to count when it was some foreign land of the pesky foreigners. We were now on the hook to make it up to the Lakota for the land we took, so we probably just gave it back, right?

Well, that's certainly not the way the America Corporation does business, we have a strict no-return policy, but we can refund you the value of the 'property.' Here's some paper scraps that we printed up with the pictures of the guys who took it from you, that should replace the most sacred thing in your entire culture, worked pretty well for us. Of course, we're only going to give you what it was worth way back then, back when a pig cost $5 and an acre of unallotted indian land cost $1. Yeah, inflation sucks, for you, but we can offer you some compounded interest, though now we're gonna have to print some more paper scraps to make up for it.

So we opened a fractional bank account and loaded it up with millions in exchange for destroying their uncivilization, split up among nine bands of the Sioux Nation, but for some reason they weren't interested in cashing the check. The money still sits to this day, untouched, no amount of foreign currency can replace their precious Unci Maka, at least until the glitter of capitalism has completely disconnected the 'haves' from the 'have-nots', and the tribal council considers cashing-in at the expense of the tribe.

And that was the word on the street, or at least on the facebook, that the Oglala band of the Lakota Nation was considering accepting their portion of the settlement. As you could imagine, we weren't too happy about it, nor were many of the internet chat rooms, wait, are those still a thing?

The rumor was that they weren't accepting it as payment for the purchase of the hills, but as restitution for the energy extracted from beneath them, though it all sounded pretty shady to us. And no else one in the tribe wanted it, 90% are publicly against it at least, they know that it only validates america's assumed ownership of a living being that cannot be owned. But tribal councils aren't exactly known for acting in the best interests of the people, hmm, kinda sounds like our government.

Speaking of our government, it's worth a mention as to our insistence of the interference into theirs. Like the minimum requirement of full blood membership to reserve their place at the table, and our publicly held strategy of simply letting the natives dilute themselves out of existence. Or how about in this current 2018 election cycle, where red states are marginalizing the red man, by requiring physical addresses in order to vote, which simply don't exist in the tipi-o boxes of their prison camp. Or how we stipulated that three quarters of the men in the tribe had to agree in order to sign treaties, or to take the Black Hills money. We kept poking our nose into the affairs of the indians and pushing our patriarchal gender roles onto a previously matriarchal society. We knew that if we were to sway the tribes with the allure of dollars, then we needed to take the decisions out of the hands of the elders and women of the community. Plus, the alcohol and meth wouldn't hurt. Wouldn't hurt us anyway.

It's old news about the way we used the alcohol to break their spirits, but it's also fairly common knowledge that our government uses the most heinous of drugs, to break the will of those who would otherwise be able to stand up to the oppression that we impose. The Iran-Contra scandal made public that the CIA spread crack cocaine into the povertous populous, while their former head was vice-principal of america. And I've personally talked to vets who confirmed that we guard opium fields in afghanistan, until it's ready to bring home faster than the troops.

And then we get to lock up our victims, where we can further break their spirit, take away their voting rights, indoctrinate them into a life of habitual offense and fracture functional families. We leave their kids to grow up alone in a world rigged against them, where the only way to survive is to follow in their parent's footsteps, and all the while citing the overcrowded jailhouse as not only a reason to retain prejudice, but as the motivation to build more privatized businesses, I mean prisons. We profit from every angle of injustice we serve. And those who can only see the incarcerated as criminals that have earned every mistreatment we can think of, instead of the victims of a broken system designed for their defeat, well, that is a testament to just how successful the brainwashing of privilege has been.

"Well, I'm white, and I've never smoked crack, and none of my white friends have either, so obviously it is a trait of the blacks, maybe we should just lock them all up. Or they should just work hard like me, and they'll be able to live a life of privilege too. I've earned my spot above the poverty line. I've worked all of my life. Walked right up to my white neighbor's house and got a job mowing his lawn, not a call to the police. I helped my parents with chores and got an allowance, not a reminder that food stamps were running low this month. I spent free time joining afterschool clubs and selling snacks door-to-door, not pressured into a gang in order to feel safe walking to school. I walked right into my first job and the white manager hired me on the spot, and his finger wasn't even on the alarm button. I spent enough time studying to make the grade for college, not raising my brothers and sisters while my mom served tables and my dad served sentences. I even worked hard enough that I was accepted on my own merit, so of course dad cosigned on my student loan. See, I worked for every bit of privilege I've received, and you bet I'm gonna enjoy it. It's not my fault that the blacks and the indians are lazy bums, or that they'd rather smoke drugs than live an easy life of pleasure and happiness. We all have problems, and we all have the same chance to overcome them, I guess white people are just better than the rest."

Um, I think you forgot the part about being able to ask a cop for directions without being shot in the back. You'd think at least the indians who still live on the rez would be free of the unjustified injustices of the justice system, and in so many ways they are, but it is still a broken system. The BIA cops on the rez are at least native, and I've had good interactions with them, guess my privilege even works on the rez. I don't hear about police shootings or anything like that, they are still a part of the community with an understanding of their family's problems, but they are also part of the problem. And they also have their own problems of oppression to face, like in Rosebud, where half of the BIA cops were fired for pissing dirty on their mandatory meth tests.

The BIA, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the agency that has the jurisdiction over a sovereign land that we have no control over, except that the BIA was established by the US war department and is now controlled by the interior. We are still in charge of far more than polluting the food and water of the POW camps. That's not even an obscene metaphor relating reservations to the industrial incarceration of indians, the reservations are literally recognized by our government as POW camps, prisoners of war, that's our official stance on those that we were kind enough not to massacre like the rest.

*******

At Camp Justice, we had a few elders who stopped by regularly to sweat, and sometimes just for a visit to share understandings and stories of the good old days. It's almost entrancing to hear the slow cadence of their experience, and I'm grateful to have developed the ability to sit down and shut up, to listen intently, even when there's a minute long silence as they gather their thoughts. It's a good skill to have, and now it's nerve-wracking to hear someone interrupt the flow of another with their own need to speak, even if they've already heard this story before.

One elder was definitely stuck on repeat, but that also enabled me to retain more than just a broad sentiment of his message. He had a few talking points, including his POW status, complete with his POW number, U33442134. Issued both a social security number through which to pay taxes, and a POW number through which to serve his time. The 'U' stood for unallotted, which meant that he received his identification after all of the gridded cages of land had been divvied up through the general allotment act, so no land left to steward since we already sold the other ninety million acres to the racist white people of the dakotas.

Pine Ridge is POW Camp #334 and Rosebud is #335, they used to connect, but that gave the natives too much capacity to work together, so we took even more land and separated the two reservations with an impassable blockade of privileged private prejudice. And then we just started slowly closing in the walls around them.

Nebraska decided to redraw their state line, and move it a mile into the south dakota reservation of Pine Ridge. What did south dakota care, go for it boys, don't drink the water though. Our elder would point to a hill across the way, on the other side of white clay's liquor town, a ridge covered with Pine Trees. "That's Pine Ridge, there's no Pines or ridges over here, that's the real reservation boundary, there's even a stone marker over there to prove it."

Now ain't that some Bull runoff? So let me get this straight, the white town of liquor and missionaries isn't a tenth of a mile outside of the rez, it's point nine miles inside of it? Geez. And how would one even go about correcting this obviously unintentional clerical error? It's too late to move this run-down town I'd imagine, simply not fair to relocate twelve white people, I mean white clay people, just because of some silly land dispute. Why, they might even cry as they hit the trail. Oh, and there's the inordinate amount of alcohol taxes that nebraska's been collecting for years, as they funneled in the poison and funneled out whatever money did manage to circulate on the rez. But that's over now, so why can't we just give them back a single mile of the millions that we took?

I know it sounds ridiculous, the thought of us treating the indians like humans, and even the thought of asking US citizens to give up their property rights for anything other than the eminent domain of corporate greed, so what if we don't? What if we move the imaginary line back to where it actually sits on the paper printed by the colonizers, the one that has all of the imaginary lines of boundaries to cross, but nobody has to move? It's just a pretend line anyway, and now the twelve folks of white clay would just have a simple change of address form to fill out, it happens all the time with republican voting districts. Nothing would change in their daily life, still no alcohol, and still neighbors to the indians, the only difference would be that they could pay the exact same amount of taxes to the tribe, instead of nebraska.

"What!? No way, we ain't living in no POW camp, and we dang sure ain't paying them heathens a dime." I bet if the line had inadvertently been moved the other way, there wouldn't even be a hesitation of retribution. It's only fair really, but it would set a precedent of undoing privilege, and that can't happen. What if some liberal indian lover decided that all of the dakotas really belonged to the descendants of the indians that we gave all of the dakotas too? We'd all be up Cow crap creek and governor feather face would be in charge of out tax dollars, no effing way.

Or what about the Black Hills? Why can't we let them be the park rangers of their most sacred mountains? They certainly know more of the stories within the land and would make most excellent tour guides, then we could just let them collect the eleven bucks that it cost to visit our sacred mt rushmore. Oh, but I bet they might have a different take on the history of the rock hard formation of our country. Obviously we can't have them spreading the slander of the actual events that led up to the seizure of the hills, or the earthquake machine in the caves, or the gold standard of custer's demise, plus we'd have to pay them for all of the uranium we want to blow out of the Earth. Or what if they didn't let us take it at all?

It just doesn't work for us to give up what we rightfully stole in the first place, it's not like we went to Sitting Bull's house to murder him and then massacred his people for nothing. We earned every privilege we got, it's not our fault they were lazy bums and just wanted to sit around praying all day. We'd love to just relax at home with our families, and maybe even give you back your home as well, but we gotta make a living somehow, and money's money, gotta have more fuel to fuel the fuel extraction units, or else what would we do with ourselves, sit around and pray about loving each other all day? Get real, you might as well cash the check, cause you ain't never gonna be king of these hills.

And when you put it that way, it seems like maybe they should. How likely is it that america is gonna have a change of heart and give them back a literal gold mine. How honorable is it to refuse the little bit of money that could never replace the hills, but could help bring firewood to the frozen indians on the rez? Is it better to do the right thing and stand up for Unci Maka, even if it means dying in the process? Well, what better day to die than this one? The Black Hills are not for sell.

*******

The tribal council announced that they were not considering the acceptance of the money, that it had only been briefly mentioned in a meeting, of course that was only after a public outcry against the deal. Plus, we had just been protesting their corruption in front of the tribal building yesterday, and we are fresh off of a win, so they might not want to square up against Camp Justice.

The protest wasn't of our design, we were standing in solidarity with another movement that was spreading awareness of the misdealings of the council. Funny to have some white carolinian out front protesting the tribal corruption, but I quit questioning the places my heart takes me after the incredible journey I've been on thus far. And the even more interesting caveat, was that the council had just helped to fund the fight against white clay. They'd given us a grand or so to put on the Horse race, and to start gearing up for winter, but we are one and the same with Unci Maka - we cannot be bought. A few dollars will not bribe the defenders of the sacred to look the other way, as you plunder from the people that we're both sworn to protect

So what's the bit of dirty dealing of the day? Lol, this one's rich, like the council, and wrong on a couple of different levels. So the other night, at four in the morning, the treasurer's wife got pulled over for a DUI, not good, but it happens, especially to a race of humans who have such a genetic predisposition to alcoholism. And she was in his tribal vehicle, oooh, still not good, but... and she had meth and heroin on her. Hold the phone, as she called him to bail her out with a five-thousand dollar tribal check, which the council was trying to pretend never happened, because the treasurer was the lynchpin to the rest of the tribal misappropriation.

If he goes down, they all go down. And in the middle of the protest, a worker rolls past us with three bags of shredded documents on the way to the dumpster. Mm hmm, probably just coincidence and meaningless memos, but certainly gave us something to talk about. Or we could talk about the chances that the treasurer didn't know about his wife's drug problem. Or the odds that he also partook in the most vile criminal behavior of suffering from addiction to escape oppression. If even the treasurer of the tribal council can be afflicted by the poverty of nothingness, just imagine the hopelessness of the have-nots on the rez, and what possible escape they could fathom outside of alcohol, meth, or suicide.

*******

That last one wasn't quite rhetorical, I actually do have an answer. I'm just some honky from a life of privilege that doesn't have any real trauma to heal from, but I have seen these ways work for my brothers in anguish. You gotta come in the sweat lodge and pray with us.

We held ceremony every few days, and had some regulars that showed up more often than that. We had time for brotherhood and splitting wood beforehand, it just so happened that most of our visitors were dudes, but all were most certainly welcome. There was one brother that I got fairly close to, a younger guy, and I was the youngest in camp at the time, so we'd crack jokes and cut wood, that's a pretty good start to letting some frustrations out, and then we'd sweat. Pray. Cry. Get broken down by the steam so that we could open up without ego, be honest with ourselves about the things that weighed on our hearts, that's the only way to begin the process of working through them.

It's easy to compartmentalize the pain, the pain you've caused, the guilt, to pretend that it's all good, you're a tough guy, men don't cry, men don't feel, you did nothing wrong because your ego is always right. But in the lodge, he's not there to protect you. The spirits are though, the grandfathers are, you are in the womb of Unci Maka, connected to her understanding that we are all walking our own paths through life, there's no need to be ashamed, no need to hide, hiding from your spirit only disconnects you from the magic of the great mystery.

We pray up to Tunkasila, combining our vibrations and sending our energy into the universe. We pray down to Unci Maka, sending our love into her core as we bring her healing for the traumas we've caused. And we pray inward, to the piece of the universe that is inside us all, and with the purification of the lodge, we are able to transcend the blockages that keep us separated from the light that flows within. And it physically detoxifies us, which is important for those who have a hard time setting the bottle down.

Then we all sit around the fire with a little medicine, and talk about the affect alcohol and other addictions have had on our lives. It's essentially an AA meeting, but instead of twelve steps, we have four doors. I think there's an official method of Red Road recovery, but ours was an informal gathering of community, a safe sober space for family to be open and honest with each other. My brother really just wanted something to do that didn't necessitate grabbing a six pack on the way. There's nowhere to hang out on the rez, and off-rez isn't safe or sober, any friends that want to kick it are already drunk by dusk, so now it's just too boring not to drink your troubles away.

*******

Oh, what do they have to be depressed about? We allotted them a place to live for free, and we give them some canned goods and a golden brick of commod-cheese every other month, and some even get food stamps beyond that, they've got it made, at least as long as they stay put on the rez. Sure, there's nothing to do to pass the time except to think about the countless tragedies along their family tree, or the fact that they'll most likely end up another, not much hope for anything beyond fake meat sandwiches and dirty water, definitely no way to 'make it' on the rez, but where could you go without knowing a single person out in the colonized world? How could you possibly make it out there?

Assuming that you could even get ahold of a car and some gas money, and a bag of canned food, where would you even go? So what, the cities nearby are prejudiced against you, not necessarily in-your-face racist all the time, but rigged against you for sure. Some natives live there though, the ones I met were mixed blood and had never lived on the rez, or the couple who now lived in their van. And that's probably the only way to get started, how can you get a place to live with no money, no job, no connections, and no white blood in you? And a job... good luck.

So you're def staying in your car or camping in the woods for the first few months, maybe get a job picking Squash, make fifty bucks a day, twenty on food and gas, seven days a week if you're lucky, eight hundred a month, and the cheapest place in the projects is six hundred, and it's in the drug infested ghetto, plus power, and gotta have a phone to have a job, and pretty soon you're struggling to pay the bills like the rest of the lower class, giving up your full-time soul for money and losing whatever connection to the land you had been able to retain on the rez. And God forbid if you are a girl trying to do all this, you are the target for the highest percentage of missing and murdered women in the country, and especially in those neighboring areas, so do you really think sleeping in your car for two months is the way to make it in this world?

Why would anyone ever try to survive that struggle to stay alive, when at least here you have a place to live, and food, no way to get anywhere else in life, but you have friends and family here who treat you like a human, and they all drink, so might as well pop a top and forget about all that other stuff. Tons of privileged white people crack a beer to forget about their first world problems or hard days work, but just imagine if a beer or two reacted with your indian blood to make you physically ill, instantly addicted, and the sugar propelled your type two diabetes, but at least it did make you forget all those other problems.

This is of course not the story of everyone, some get out just fine, those who had a less traumatized childhood, sober parents, or knew an auntie in the city. Or you could maybe get a job in that town I hitchhiked to, it was actually still on the rez, and a reasonable commute from the rest of the community. It was an indian college that I went to for wifi, so indians were probably accepted, and it's feasible that you could get a construction job or something that might actually pay alright.

I bet you could maybe even save up enough to travel to a real city that would be more accepting of other cultures. More expensive in those cities, so you're still in the van, but now you know how to do construction, and why would you ever want to think about the rez again after you finally climbed out of that bucket once and for all? Much better to be a contributing member to the growth of civilization for sure, and now the lost souls on the rez are just that much more lost as another of their strongest is washed away into the brainsuck of the America Corporation.

Or then there was that college, not a colonized education worthy of a NCAA basketball team, but a worthy education and lessons in a real language at least. Probably not accredited enough for a board room, though it's got one of the most accurate american history classes around.

Or there are lots of other people figuring it our on their own, lots starting to wake up, and stand up. Standing Rock gave a lot of young natives a purpose in life, a reason to live, a chance to live in a good way, something to do in a safe and sober environment surrounded by family, prayer, and armed mercenaries, what else could you ask for?

Standing Rock saved a lot of lives, not just mine, and it ignited a path of generational healing. Their kids will only know purpose, dedication, strength and love, and will know plenty of goofy white people. And then their kids. And no inherited alcoholism to pass on. The kids that grow up in this movement will be the first generation of the strongest people in the history of humankind, believe me, I already know some. If you want your kids to be prepared for it all, they need to be here, they're not going to figure it all out on an xbox. They will amaze you with what they are capable of, once they become disconnected from that other world. We're leaving them with a hazardous ecosystem, you owe them the chance to be able to survive it. It's gonna take a lot of skills, are they ready? Are you?

*******

Standing Rock wasn't the beginning of the resistance though, just a pivotal moment in time that awakened a record number of warriors, but there have been native warriors for a long time. We had all sorts of visitors at camp, and one day even Dennis Banks stopped by on his way through town. Dennis Banks was famous among natives, he was one of the founding members of AIM, he was legit, and that was back when AIM was hardcore enough to face off with anyone who threatened the indians. And then he died from pneumonia a week after he stopped by to cheer us on. And another older AIMster came by who had been one of the members of the original Camp Justice. What? The original Camp Justice?

Our camp was named after another "Camp Justice" in this same location back in 1999, established to insist on accountability for a streak of indian murders that were never properly investigated, and to stop the abusers of alcohol sales. Over 2,000 natives marched to white clay to demand action, which ended in a confrontation with the heavily armed police. And the marches continued for fifteen years, with no response of responsibility, and now we've taken the torch as we light a fire under those who insist on indifference, even if they happen to be indians too.

This old school justice leaguer really took a liking to me, constantly raved about my frybread, and then the moonlighting chef fixed his dangling muffler to a glowing yelp review. Feels pretty good to have a real life hero in my fight against corners. Don't worry though, we had dapl hanging out too. Maybe.

You never really know for sure until they get outed later on. Some of us thought that he might be a white supremacist infiltrator, but he coulda been for real I guess, figured I could use his help splitting wood either way, but he left after just one piece. Said he had a Lakota wife, but she was shy, and said that he'd recently moved to the rez to go to school and learn to be a Lakota language teacher. I think it's a great idea, a little ambitious maybe, though he never once sweat with us and we never met his wife, a bit peculiar, but we open our arms to all. Always could have just been some white dude trying to figure out his own connection to the planet while he lives with a bunch of indians eating frybread, he was no hippie though.

*******

But this hippie had been connecting in a big way, done with the burden that I felt to write, a weight I'd been carrying since shortly after camp. And the weight of the camp experience had been released as I wrote and processed it all. But now I was in a new space, the first leg of my new expedition, sleeping on the ground in a round tipi, still eating crap, but smoking enough cigs to cancel it out. I still had to lift another weight from the baggage I was carrying through life, so I gave Will the laptop I'd been lugging through my misadventure. 'My' laptop, as in I bought it, well, I traded a synthesizer that I bought at a privileged discount for it, but I was looking forward to this day of unloading it onto someone who was doing good work for the movement. Felt good to pass it on, I'm certain that I'll have another cross my path when I need one again, should be soon enough I'd imagine, or I could always borrow Will's, but for now, it feels good to be a few pounds lighter as I journey onward.

No plan or anything, don't worry, I've not gone crazy, but I was feeling that this place was my launching pad to the next thing. A stepping stone into the future. The alcohol fight was over, and it hadn't really been mine to begin with, so obviously I wasn't meant to be here for long. And the next thing I knew, I'd been here a month and a half. I'd kinda always been waiting for my ride to pull in. The one headed to whatever camp made my heart tingle, wherever my spirit needed me the most, let's go. I'm ready. Anytime.

Could go west, wiyohpeyata, I knew of a group of water protectors building a community that most likely needed a midnight chef. Could travel north, waziyata, to the Line-3 camp that was gearing up for another cold winter of government stand-off. (NE really, but just go with it for the cinematic effect.) Could be eastbound, I'm down, wiohiyanpata, a return to family or friends or farm life, though it doesn't quiet feel like forward momentum. Or I could migrate south for the winter, itokagata, got a friend in texas who'd love to keep me warm for a few months, and it just started snowing in the Black Hills. Completely open to whichever way the wind blows, here we go, and, 3, 2, 1, wait for it, wait for it... nope, I got nothing.

What's the deal? I'm ready to get out there and start making a difference. Start saving the world. Why am I still here walking in sunwise circles and yapping about the poisons of alcohol, the poisons of radiation, the poisons of white supremacy and the poisons of capital gains? What in the world does all this have to do with saving it? All I'm doing is talking to the victims of the assault, shouldn't I be fighting the assailants, what good am I doing sitting around this fire and laughing with these broken souls who have never really had someone to listen to their story? Ah, I get it, nevermind, I'm good here. Carry on.

I realized that I hadn't quite been living in the now, kinda was, during the day-to-day at least, but had still been looking towards the next thing. The next mission. I'd been so looking forward to moving past the book, but now that it was in the past, I kept waiting for the future. And then one day I realized I was already there.

How foolish was I to be waiting for a resistance camp so that I could help people, while I was already in that exact scenario? This was the next thing. I had been putting the ultimate faith in my heart to guide me to the place I was needed the most, but somehow had not even realized it when it happened. I was helping people here in a big way, through personal connection and counseling, understanding, but I had been caught up thinking that I was supposed to be working on the big picture, standing on the frontline, then I realized that this was the frontline. Healing is what we need the most. Healing from the poisons of separation. Our people need to be brought back together for the coming battle. We need them all healthy, strong, and united if we stand a chance of healing the Earth herself.

*******

The next day I woke up early to a glorious sunrise, a magical moment of complete now-ness, I was truly present in my presence at camp. Cooked breakfast before everyone was up and gave some Tobacco to Unci Maka as I thanked her for my revelation, and apologized for my slow uptake. I still prayed about the path ahead, but this time digging in for the winter was a serious option, and the only other avenue that felt right was a return to asheville.

If I made it there, I could spread some of my understandings among those I've known the longest, strengthen my network of future warriors, check in on the Mountain Valley and Atlantic Coast pipelines, maybe research my heritage on the Cherokee rez, and certainly avoid freezing my butt off. But I was here now, and I would be here as long as I needed to be, as long as it felt right in my heart, as long as I could now see that this was the place of my greatest impact. Plus, I ripped my cords all the way across the front while we loaded firewood for sweat, so now I have a nice new pair of donation snow pants to get me through the nuclear winter.

Good day to die, good day to live, good day to pray. Sweat is always a priority in my book, so after I changed pants, we finished with the wood, built the peta wakan, offered Tobacco to the fire, forty-two stones, and as we were minutes away from crawling into the lodge, I heard the familiar twang of a north carolina accent.

Atoms in motion, spinning around,

Planets are forming, orbits are found,

Earth everchanging, no time to rest,

We're meant to be mobile, I won't settle for less.

*******

Unci Maka is a nomad. A wandering wonder. She never stops her rotating revolutions. Her liquid consistency has birthed drifting continents. Her elements of change erode any sense of permanence from her timeline. Every cell of her being is gravitationally intertwined with the movements of the collective. The swirls of her species can be likened to that of her atmosphere. Always flowing, never standing still, because to stop, is to perish. It is to give up on the continuation of coalescion. To fear the unknown and hide behind the walls of our mind's fabrication, is to seal our fate within the claustrophobic tomb of a concrete civilization. To construct these cages of separation, is not to cut our umbilical cord into adulthood, it is to cut the lifeline that connects us to mission control, as we chaotically hurdle disconnected through space. Trying to stop right in the middle of an interdimensional transit hub and build a tower that says "We're in charge," is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of.

The micro and macrocosms don't even seem to notice, and while we are successful at slowing the travelers on these plains of existence, even stopping a few that collide with our hardening heads, our destiny is obviously one of being washed away with the flood as our planet evolves around us. It doesn't matter how tall we build our castles of protection, the sands of time will dissolve the illusion of power, as we are left unprepared for the rising tides of change. We are but a fading dream of the past and the fossils of the future, it is completely ridiculous to think we can stop the clock and leave any kind of permanent mark in this world, other than the dead end road of our own dying family tree.

The crustacean who insists on permanent residence, is never empowered to expand into the next stage of his being, instead fated to suffocate as his body outgrows the capacity of his mind. We have to keep moving, or else our species will become fat, slow, stupid, and unprepared to survive the changing life cycles of a massive planet that we do not have the authority to control.

Forget about us destroying the world with our sorry attempt at infinite creation, even our everlasting styrofoam will dissolve in a blink of her eye. We are the only victims of our idiocracy, as we refuse to admit that our children could ever be smarter than us. And how could they, when we've sheltered them with walls and fences and cages for their own protection? When we've locked them in cities and enslaved them to the farm, no longer free to mature with the rest of life on Earth. Each generation less adapted for survival, as their inheritance is limited to a weakened photocopy of a blurry genetic code.

Domestication stops evolution, that's a scientific fact, that's the whole point of it. A never-changing monocrop of consistent consumables. Every undomesticated species on the planet, however, has been getting stronger through the clouds of adversity that are making the rest of us sick. We have reached the critical point in which our children will reenter the competition for survival, but we didn't let them attend practice for fear of getting hurt. They will stand no chance unless we let them out of the kennel and back into the real world. There is no app to download that will replace the experience of participating in evolution. If they don't learn to swim now, they're going to drown in the tidal waves of the gene pool.

*******

"Aha, what if I don't believe in evolution? Just not enough room for millions of years in this small of a closed mind. Sure, we can see it all around us, like the adapting populations of viral outbreaks and the Mosquitos that carry them, but that's no proof of evolution, that's just God's hand wiping away those who defy his demands and look his gifts in the mouth."

Um... I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I've been describing. God gave us everything we could ever want in this Garden of Eden, and as long as we didn't try to take control of it, it would provide everything we could ever need, including an infinitely diverse future as we continued to evolve within it. Unless your God couldn't figure that one out.

Then man sinned, well, technically the evil matriarch did it, but would you believe that part was written by the patriarchal leaders who weren't quite ready to relinquish control? Anyway, Adam was this dude that broke the only natural law, and now had to live in fear instead of abundance, had to give up the nudist colony and start his own brand of colonization. He had to build the house of Adam. The thunder-fast reflexes of God's might was far too scary to let his children sleep outside, so he sheltered them from the rest of God's wilderness. Man was now separate from nature. Separate from God.

The duality was genetic, DNA obviously being God's code of creation at the core of every cell of life, so it was inherited by two very different sons. Abel, the herder, or more pertinent to this conversation, the nomad. He followed the flock as they followed their food, much like some folks I know that herded Buffalo, hey, it's easier than herding Cats. He was never anywhere long enough to set up permanent residence, never left a buildup of crap in his rearview, never depleted the 'natural resources' from any one area, never tried to live anywhere inhospitable to life, and probably never had to cut down a single tree or anything living that he wasn't going to eat.

And then there was his brother, Cain, the agriculturalist, or we know him as the first settler. He converted nature into farmland, which certainly took more sweat of his brow than just walking around picking food, so he definitely had a right to own the land. No paperwork I'd imagine, but I'm guessing he had a fence. Had plenty of wood to build it considering that he cut down a few acres of forest, and enough to build a nice big farmhouse since he was sticking around for a while.

And if you're justifying the cultivation of an existing garden by claiming that it was already an empty field, no trees, do you not think that God is in every single blade of grass that got plowed under? Or every weed that was pulled to create room for one species' preferred diet? Perhaps that's why God didn't accept Cain's sacrifice of food that he'd grown at the cost of another's life, while happily approving of Abel's flock of minimal hoofprint.

And what were the Sheep to do when they flocked to the fence line? Maybe not a big deal with one fence, but once there's miles of cornrows, I know exactly what their fate looks like. A settlement of sedentary lifestyle makes the nomadic way of life an impossibility. Just ask the Lakota. The settlers killed the nomads, it's the story of our country, of all of civilization, and it goes all the way back to the very first book of the most printed publication in the world. Told you the permanence of the printed word was not a good thing, now read on.

So Cain lived on, and continued his father's colonization, but Adam was just one dude of many, it doesn't quite spell that bit out, but where do you think Cain found a wife? Adam was just the one guy touched by God enough to defy him, to remove himself from nature as he fell from the garden, and to begin the process of hiding from the natural elements that seem to make everyone else stronger. And now Cain's taken the food into his own hands, and the housing crisis, which provides lots of storage for excess, which is the only way to survive the cruel winter without flying south for the season.

Now he's figured it all out, his kids don't have to worry about a thing, just a bunch of chores to break their backs, and food that's not quite as healthy as the wild stuff, but at least you don't have to walk too far to get it. And then their kids know even less about surviving in the wild, while their food is equally tamed. And then their kids are even more domesticated as their food follows suit. And each generation breeds a further genetic disconnect from nature, and a lesser chance of survival within it, which means farther expansion of the colonized farm life, which means less room for any remaining roaming nomads, which means that the living descendants of Adam spread throughout the world and forced their way of life onto any culture that was living a heathenistic life of nomadicism, quite proudly really, it was even their official missionary position.

The spread of the church is the spread of colonization is the spread of agriculture is the eradication of a nomadic way of life, and it has almost defeated the planet. It is the desecration of de-creation, an unraveling of our infinite potential, and it has nearly erased the Garden of Eden. Ok, now I gotta get the hell up outta here before I get hit by lightening, although according to indigenous traditions, a lightening strike means that you have strong spiritual energy, like a medicine person or a heyoka. Now ain't that backwards?

*******

So I was about to crawl into the sweat lodge and drum and sing and pray to the dirt and the stars and the Wakinyan Oyate, and into our camp of fifteen, out on Pine Ridge Reservation, in the middle of nowhere south dakota, walks two travelers headed directly through asheville, NC. A destination fifteen hundred miles away, the day after I started living in the now, and half a day after I prayed about possibly going home. So I got on my knees and crawled into the lodge to pray some more.

I didn't even know if they'd still be around when we got out, but the steam helped me to confirm that if they were, I was supposed to go with them. But they were gone. But they came back the next day. And they were down to take me along, as long as I didn't mind driving, and as long as I didn't mind making a pit stop in colorado for a couple days of recreation, I'm in.

Said they'd be around for another few days, so I slowly started telling everyone that they were losing their frybread chef, the next morning I finally saw Will to break the news, and a half hour later the ride showed back up and said that it was time to go. Said I should go pack, ha, but I did need to stitch my pants up real quick. I was proud of the multiple layers of scars, and I even had to take off the back pocket to patch the front. Hey, you dropped your pocket. It's been a fun year to say the least.

Those that knew me well weren't surprised with my surprise departure, and in general, it's not that uncommon for a water protector to ride the wind. I'd say that it's the way of a nomad, but I don't want to scare you off from the lifestyle, certainly plenty of degenerate itinerants plan ahead a bit more than I , like, probably most of them. But what's the fun in that?

I had a really good heartfelt toksa with one of my closest spiritual mentors, he'd been at Sun Dance until I'd walked away, and had transferred here while I was still with Unci, so I'd gotten to spend a lot of one-on-one time with him over the last few months. I'd gained so much understanding and perspective from him, he's a lot to handle sometimes, but anyone with strong medicine seems to be.

He'd been one of my teachers of keeping the peta wakan for the inipi, and always open to sharing his ways, because he could see that I was genuine with my walk on this path. We'd talked about me going on hembleciya, he said I wasn't ready yet, I should keep working on myself and I could probably go on the hill next summer. He told me to make fifty red prayer ties when I got home, an offering to the spirits for all of my safe travels, then he gave me a bag of Hante Blaska to pray with, the sacred Flat Cedar from the dakotas that I would be hard-pressed to find in the east.

He'd seen my transformation since Standing Rock, he knew that I was walking in a good way, and he could tell that I'd sweat all summer with Ben. It had prepared me to journey out into the real world of fake foods and prison camp, he'd seen other protectors start to lose it, but my focus on prayer had me solid throughout it all. And as we shared the strongest hug of the season, he said "You take care of yourself, you're doing real good, you just keep staying humble like you are and you'll be just fine."

I know it might be hard to tell from this perspective, but it meant the world to me that he'd seen it from his. I'd been consciously working on humility for sure, it's way easier for me on the rez, where I'm constantly humbled by how little I actually know about anything. About the depths of my privilege, or the lows of oppression, or the deep end of a connection that I've only just broken the surface of.

I'd been tested a bunch, little stuff like being told to do one thing and then to undo it, and I'd just nod my head and say "no problem." It wasn't a problem, that's why I was here. And constantly having to prove myself to newcomers, or carrying no ownership of the kitchen space, and always being the first to give up my seat to fix coffee for an elder as I quietly listen to them speak. Plus, there was a protector here that always gave me a hard time, the nerve, but I never got frustrated or said an ill word of them, instead I tried to practice understanding, patience, and humility. I knew in my heart that I was getting work done, but it's tough to imagine that anyone else notices a subtle trait like that. They'll notice if you're not, for sure, but they'd really have to pay attention to see that I did. And he did. It made me feel pretty good, reaffirmed, especially once he told me that it was working. Thank you brother.

Oh yeah, and I also heard him talking of a dream he'd had, about a band of post-apocalyptic survivors roaming the country as they cut fences. Mmm hmm, noted. And then we left. On what would prove to be the greatest humility exam to date. Ever. #mosthumble

*******

My gracious transport crew were not a couple, but they were a couple of characters alright. They were Lumbee indians from the eastern part of my home state, a tribe who was one of the earliest to get settled upon. I'd imagine that most didn't make it, and the few that did were forced to assimilate to survive, which explains how these two indians were more colonized than most of the white people I know. Granted, I run with a pretty select group of white folk.

They'd both been out to Standing Rock, oh cool, so they're water protectors, eh... I don't think they camped out, but they did bring donations, bravo for sure, we needed all the help we could get. And they'd just come back to the rez with more donations, she had a bit of money and was helping those who needed it the most, most excellent, and since we traveled on her dime, it meant she was in charge.

Money's money honey, and she carried the privilege loud and proud. She was indian, but had only recently connected to her roots, and it all seemed for show and more misappropriated than a white dude writing a book about sweat lodge. But she was covering my return ticket, and meals too, so I can suck it up for a few days. And colorado.

At first it was just sassy attitude and ignorance, her accent sounded just like a good southern white girl, as she talked down about the way indians live in poverty on the rez. Offering up colonized advice that was sure to fix generations of ancestral trauma over night. Of course I most appreciated her ideas of turning the open plains into farms and ranches, the exact policy that broke the vitality of the land in the first place. But, if the alternative is to eat crap commods and fake stuff, wouldn't that be a better option?

I can't really argue with it, food sovereignty is one way to release america's grip on their freedom, if they didn't need us for food, then they might have a shot at survival. As long as they're locked in a cage and dependent on us to slide them meals between the bars, then we can treat them like the incarcerated animals that we do. Though agriculture and ranching will only deplete the land further, as they spread human superiority to the least privileged of america.

*******

I'm much more into the construct of permaculture. A permanent culture. Much different than the age-reversing qualities found in a culture of permanence. Establishing food systems that actually function, as they reweave the webs of symbiosis. Planting foods that like to live there, alongside the plants that they like to live with, and an open invitation to all walks of life. An eco-community that we may help establish, but whose self-sustained evolution will take on a life of its own, as we become members of our own living environment.

We have dissected enough ecosystems to understand the basics of planting the garden, and as we rediscover a life of letting go, the bounty of abundance will spread like wildfire. The key to food sovereignty is not in the continuation of farming the cattle, it will be found in the partnerships of tending the wild. We will empower the growth of food forests, as we spread the seeds of migration. The Buffalo will lead the way, the hunters will follow, and they will return with a bounty of mammoth proportions. The gatherers have gathered, the growers have grown, and the chefs have cooked up some kinda concoction that will nourish the entire community.

It may seem that I've slipped back into cartoon mode, a romanticized version of a fairytale myth, but I've fully experienced the magic of camp life. And even those less privileged than I, the oppressured people on the rez who didn't get to choose their own adventure, they've even figured out how to make it work in a backdrop of modern warfare. They've created traditional food banks, an open space where hunters and gatherers and growers and preppers can easily distribute their contributions to the commons. Everyone in the tribe walks a different path, and as the diversity of ingredients converge, the menu of creation becomes a boundless web of possibility. The people are once again bringing their traditional knowledge to the table, and the next generation of rez food is growing up above the barcodes of commodity.

We don't have to live in caves as we eat nuts and berries, though I don't quite see the problem with that one. We will experience an endless evolution of ways to come together, to share the bounty of abundance, as the entire community's quality of life spirals out of the control mechanism. We will not hold back the cornucopia as we fear the scarcity of society, we will rejoice in the glory of giving, as we manifest a destiny worth living for.

We will see the return of homegrown reservation dinners, and the exotics of new native frybread pizzas, with only the primoest of wild-tended toppings. We'll roam the Sun Dance grounds and grab the gourds for dinner, as another prepares the Buffalo stew, and we'll deepen our connection to Unci Maka as we consume the local products of our own personal prayer vibrations. This is not a dream, this is our only way chance to live in a good way, and the only one with a proven track record. It is not about giving the land back to the indians, it is about giving the indians back to the indians, and giving the land back to the land.

Our Mother Earth cannot be owned. She is in charge. We are but a fraction of her magnificence, yet we have attempted to fractionate her entire existence as we box up her very essence. We must release the cages of her garden, at all levels of oppression, only then will we be free to bloom into our true potential. No piece of paper is worth a single drop of life, the perforations of the paycheck only imprison the populous, and the titles of entitlement only chain their freedom further. We must return the Earth to herself, as we rejoin our place in her symbiotic symphony. And we must empower the indigenous guides of our globe, as they lead us out of the darkness, and reconnect us to the sacred energy centers of our living planet.

*******

Speaking of, the Hills are on today's agenda, but first we stopped by the Badlands. A beautiful barren wasteland, but in a good way, an endless maze of deep inescapable chasms. Bad guys used to hide here, or hide bodies, and many got lost as they could never find a way to climb out. Crazy Horse loved them, and of course he knew the layout, so he'd often lose his enemies as they wandered for days without food. We caught some really good views and I took some photos for them, I'm not too much for pictures anymore, not since dapl had that photoshoot at the frontline.

Mt rushmore was next, no colonized admission cost though, we just parked on the side of the road and I took a pic of her flipping off those who slaughtered her ancestors. Wonder what the super white family thought as they walked by, probably no idea what an indian could be mad about at such a glorious national monument of excellence. Wait, there's still indians?

In fact, I've seen a picture from the partial construction of the stone atrocity, and there's clearly an indian in a war bonnet off to the left, a naturally occurring formation that is obviously an important chief. No joke. Sure, they had photoshop back then, and that would be easier than forcing our forefathers over top of some sacred stone formation that held the images of the ancestors, a whitewashed colonization of the land herself, which was technically never finished as debris still litters the ground. And it's curious why this national park service reminder of the "rich heritage we all share," the one carved by an imported member of the ku klux klan, why would they choose to put roosevelt up there with such legendary genociders, when he openly admitted that, "I don't go so far as to think that the only good indians are dead indians, but I believe nine out of ten are." Slacker.

But believe it or not, there is actually a monument dedicated to the indians that we killed in order to preserve this national forest. For real, there's a massive stone carving of Crazy Horse himself. Crazy Horse was an Oglala war leader who fought with Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapas at Greasy Grass, or what you might call little bighorn. He was an exceptional battle strategist, and actually beat the american superiority complex a few times.

Of course he had the power of prayer and stuff, and the advantage of going up on the hill at Bear Butte to receive the vision of the victory. And of the water protectors. Sitting Bull was no slacker though, he once even carried his prayer out into the line of fire and sat through a cloud of bullets, and then he walked away untouched by a single projectile. I bet that scared the piss out of the army, which explains their sneak attack murder at his home, and their blatant attack on prayer that continues to this day.

The Crazy Horse monument is actually way bigger than rushmore's, which explains why it is only fractionally finished. Construction was started in 1948, and it's only a few percent complete after seventy years, and surprisingly a lot of natives don't quite agree with the concept of further scarification. Who knows how long it'll take to chisel out the details, but at least that's a few hundred years of good old national forest construction jobs. There are artist renderings of what it will eventually look like, almost as good as the real thing, plus there's a big display of native artifacts that haven't been returned to their rightful heirs, so that you may feel like you get a bang for your buck, as you continue america's profiteering at the cost of indian welfare.

She was allowed to go pray for free though, her tribal card bought her access to a sacred space designated by old whitey, so that she could pray at another piece of our ancestral Earth getting demolished for profit, but at least that's something. Yet, somehow I'm having trouble grasping the legitimacy of destroying another hill as a reparation for destroying all the rest.

The better place to pray would be Bear Butte, which we stopped at next, the sacred hill that we'd visited during the Unity Concert to raise awareness about the upcoming return of the Black Hills. Remember how magical this place was, covered in colorful prayer ties, a strong energy of connection, and probably some radioactive element buried deep below, shhh. So of course we wanted to stop here... so that I could take a picture of them by the sign at the entrance. Are you sure you don't want to get out and walk up the trail and actually take in this moment of sacrednicity? Pray maybe? "Oh, you have to walk uphill, I don't think so. This picture's all I need anyway, ooh look, I already have thirty facebook likes."

And this was the theme of the entire trip. Not a moment of actually living in the moment. Every step of the way was about documenting the adventure, not living it, and the worthiness of the experience was directly valued by facebook. It was maddening. I'd noticed it back at camp, but I just figured they were excited to be there, but now I saw that the whole trip was just a photo-op. Who even takes a picture by the sign of some sacred space that they didn't even want to walk into? She couldn't even be present in the 'now' while she was driving through curvy mountain roads, as she clicked away and posted what could have been us going over a guard rail, though she'd have only noticed the like count. And she simply could not understand my committed aversion to my picture being taken, which meant she had no need to respect it, as she constantly tried to catch me unaware.

*******

My no picture policy has a few different angles. The most obvious is that I'm an outspoken member of a resistance against a nefarious government regime that openly uses facial recognition to track its targets, specifically through facebook, so even if you don't tag me, they might. I'm not scared though, it's a good day to die. Plus, I bet it'll boost book sales.

The other main reason, well, it's actually something I picked up from Crazy Horse himself. There's not too many pictures of the war hero out there, because he claimed that any photo 'taken' of him, actually captured a piece of his soul. Well now, that's certainly a bunch of uneducated superstitious hogwash, he had simply never seen this cool new technology and had no context with which to understand its mechanics. Some mysterious box that 'captured' his image and transferred it to paper, it would certainly be confusing to someone new to technology, and if anything, it just immortalized the spirit, kinda like printing the spoken word.

But we've been taking pictures for a long time, capturing memories so that we don't have to try to remember them, even to a point that we now have selfie sticks for taking our own glamour shots for no apparent reason other than vanity, and we're just fine. Shouldn't we see some massive trend away from a connection with the soul of humanity if old Crazy Bones was right? That is if there even is a soul in our secular world of tomorrow.

I guess it does seem that our society has gotten continuously more trigger happy as the technology put progressively better, cheaper, smaller cameras in all of our pockets, which also seemed to coincidentally coincide with our disconnect from the spirit of the land, but it's hardly noticeable when the majority of our time is spent flipping through pictures on the phones that have become smarter than us. Smart enough to not only auto-tag our featured faces, but to also automatically listen and record everything as they build a composite image of 1984. It's now an unquestioned commonplace to sit in public and see every soul occupied by their screentime, the 'now' completely escapes them as their mind is somewhere else. They wouldn't even notice if an Eagle took a dump in their latte, or if the corporations that imprison the phone factory are poisoning the waters of our planet.

I haven't had a phone for over a year and I've been living the life, even called up an uber back home with nothing but my growing connection to spirit, and now I'm the only one on the trip actually experiencing the ride. But at least they can look back at what they missed, though a review of the past isn't very much of a now, and dreaming of bygones is no way to find new ones. If this moment's experience is focused on that moment, then I at least hope you experienced that one to the fullest. And remember that a person is a path, not a single point in time, and no still image will ever compare to a magical lifetime of momentous occasions.

But all this is just a testament to our obsession with our phones and ourselves, and at the cost of actual human connection, that's not too much of a debate these days, but even Crazy Horse couldn't have seen this ridiculous reality coming. How could the act of taking a picture actually remove a piece of the eternal light that flows through the material of the human body? He wasn't even touching the technology, it was someone else snapping the pic. So even if I toss my phone overboard, how could some click-crazy colonizer lost in a future flashback, actually affect my own internal connection?

*******

We are beings of light. I know that's some rainbow hippie talk, but it's also congruent with the mainstreams of religion and the modern science of secularity. The most up-to-date understanding of our holographic universe, is that we are prisms through which photons travel and light up a picturesque being, that can then be perceived by the vibration sensors in our upside-down eyeballs. Each tiny cell refracting a microscopic pixel of color, that when viewed together, compose the mental image of existence. We are literally the projections of solar energy as it pours life into our planet. I get that that's a lot to wrap your head around, and it's a tough one to just believe at face value, so we can just stick to the story about the white light of God powering all of everything that ever was.

Knowing what I know now about universal and planetary energy flows, about how they interact with each other on a vibrational level, and how our energies are not only affected by both, but also play a vital role in the energetic circuitry through every molecule we encounter, well, now I'm starting to think old Crazy Face was onto something. I know without a doubt that my vocal vibrations and the accompanying heart song of my prayers, are fully capable of changing the world around me. I also believe that our symbiotic electrical relationship with the guiding light of our planet, benefits not only us, but the entirety of her being.

Even if that's too out there for you, it's hard to deny that the more of us who live in harmony with the cycles of our non-sentient randomly generated rock flying through space, equates to a healthier existence for all of the non-sentient beings who are randomly living on this piece of space junk, including us. Our energy affects all of those around us, whether it be the loving smile that brightens another's day, or the taser used to combat the prayers of pipeline protesters, in the name of consuming every drop of energy that is scientifically composed by the ancestors of humanity.

We are the conductors of energy. Our brains are the electronic motherboards that control all of our bodily systems. We can measure the voltage of synapses that empower us to invent voltage testers. This is western medical science 101. Our hearts are electromagnetic appliances that pump the essence of life through our being, and they just so happen to have over forty-thousand neurons for some reason, now just think about that one for a minute. We can visually represent the beat as an electrical waveform, and restart it with a jolt of the good stuff. There is not a soul on Earth who has a legitimate argument against the facts of matter.

And our Sun powers life on Earth. Its light rays are absorbed into the leaves of photosynthesis, the electricity is converted through the power consumption of the herbivores, and then us meat eaters convert the stored vibrations of the energizer bunny, into the waves of emotion and the actions of resistance that will keep going and going and going. The Sun empowers us to affect the world around us, but it's up to us to do so in a positive light.

But I'm obviously one of the hippies who believe in rainbows and little people. And just how the seemingly solid rainbow isn't actually there, but just a refraction of solar energy through the water molecules that make up seventy percent of every cell in every living being ever, including the planet, that's the exact same governing principle that makes our diverse range of skin tones visible to the naked eyes of Roy G Biv. Unless somehow you don't believe in rainbows, then you also believe in the capacity of light to create the hologram of life. And if you don't believe in rainbows, then just what kind of party pooping leprechaun are you?

So now we can all agree that the eternal white light of the universe is the soul that powers your materialistic nature, and that this energy flows though us as it is perceived by those in our periphery, affecting every vibrating particle of every vibrating atom of every vibrating molecule of every vibrating everything. Creating a never ending energy flow, that one might assume enabled us to remain in vibrational harmony with every other energy at play in the world, probably even in silent communication, as we let our brainwaves do the talking in a non-exclusive universal language. So just what might it feel like if seven hundred megapixels of this scientifically proven light vibration, were removed from this infinite circular flow by some unnatural device designed to capture light vibrations? Uh, I bet it would feel like it had 'taken' a piece of your soul.

I think Crazy Horse was so in-tune with the toroidal flows of energy that poured though him, as they interacted with every wave of energy that poured out of the planet around him, that he could literally feel the tiniest little piece solar energy escaping the feedback loop that had been perpetually building up until that point.

Sorry, I do get carried away with my audio engineering references, and sometimes forget that you may not get them. A feedback loop is created when a microphone is placed next to a speaker, and a single tiny vibration of sound energy circulates between these two conductors of energy vibrations, and continues to build as it overpowers any other noise in the room. A feedback loop of love between two entities will grow and overpower anything else around, the Earth counts as one of those entities, and as the strength of the vibration is weakened by locking tiny pieces of it away in your cell phone, or imprinting a negative image of phasing out a population, the feedback loop goes silent. That tiny quarter-inch lens absorbed a piece of vibration that would otherwise be bouncing around all over the place, that's what vibrations do, and now we're as lost as a bat whose echolocation was intercepted by a field of solar panels. Luckily, we had a google map to his cave.

*******

And next thing I know, we've instantly-grammed our way deep into the vapor caves of glenwood springs, colorado. Home to some of the purest, cleanest, unpollutedest water on the face of the Earth, which explains the giant water bottling facility in the center of town, no doubt one of the largest employers of the municipality. It seems that the entire vacation destination is built around the cashflow of the river, what a lucky break for those settlers who found an uninhabited utopian valley to set up permanent residence in. And lucky for us, that we were with one of the original uninhabitants of the land, so his tribal identification got us in for the exact amount of money in my resewn crotch pocket.

He didn't even have to show his ID though, he was facially recognized at the door, because he was somewhat of a famous indian around these parts. Bobby Winter, indigenous consultant to the stars, a medicine man of the Ute tribe, who it seems were sentenced to utah, not originally from there. They actually used to live right here in this magical mountain majesty, for part of the year at least, and the medicinal hot springs kept their spirits healthier than a migratory forager in the Valley of Eden. In contrast to our current healthcare plan, they lived in a community that profited from the health and well-being of all of their members, including the mother of them all, so a trip to the spa was not only encouraged, it was free too.

And so was this one, the owner of this privatized property was gracious enough to let Bobby perform the ceremonies that his ancestors had ritually used to wash away their ego, as they exchanged vibrations with the subterranean flow of planetary consciousness. Yeah, we were about to sweat in some vapor caves with a Ute medicine man, now tell me again how having money is supposed to make my life any cooler than this.

And Old Man Winter was as cool as they come, before we started praying at least, though I did feel bad for the dude having to deal with our girl Snippy Britches. They had connected through the soul suck of facebook, where they arranged this meet and greet with the stars, and although she was still selfie involved up top, she did manage to lose the signal once we descended into the sacred space.

The once darkened tunnels of bubbling brew, had been converted to a colonized concrete sauna with state mandated incandescent light vibrations, we'd sure hate for somebody to trip out down here. Others had paid fifteen bucks to lounge around in this hypodermic hideout, as every breath purified their body and they unknowingly reconnected with hers, so just wait til we start drumming.

We managed to find an empty chamber off to the side, well lit, permanent wooden benches, metal grates over the bubbling springs, but magical none-the-less. Definitely easy to imagine the intensity of holding ceremony in a darkened corridor with a tribe full of steamy sopranos, but it got hot enough to do the trick as it was. And with no grandfathers. No rocks. No bucket of water to vaporize our prayers, because we were inside the stones that powered this steam engine of planetary propulsion.

In the Lakota inipi, they say that the heat is not determined by the firekeeper or even the medicine person pouring the lodge. It is dependent on the energy transferred from the peta wakan to the grandfathers, and released in the dome as they see fit for the participants of ceremony, and sometimes it's hotter for some than for others.

And here in the cave, the only say-so that Bobby had was the drum and the prayer, so everything else was up to the ancestors that had handed down these original instructions. Still four rounds, no door to open for a breeze, but we could get up and catch our breath on the stairs if we needed to. Plus, Bobby brought in a small tub of water, just in case anyone needed a drink once it got hot. I'll admit, I was a bit skeptical at the cave's ability to burn us out, I was way into it, but doubted that it could provide the waves of intensity that I was accustomed to. And yet again I was humbled.

*******

It was out of this world, literally, and somehow his prayer vibrations caused the boiling water to grow stronger as his prayer got deeper. It got hot during each song with an unfamiliar cadence and language, and even hotter during the round of sunwise prayer. His vibrations were physically raising the frequency of the water temperature, and the water was raising ours, it was a feedback loop of purification that had our brows covered in sweat.

My traveling companions were struggling a bit, huffing and puffing as they guzzled the mni and caught a draft, seems like maybe they had a bit of personal stuff to work through or something. They kept looking in my direction, waiting for me to crack, there's no way this white kid can outlast us natives, but I'd sweat over sixty times in the last five months, plus I'd been on a humility maintenance program in-between. I was good.

I offered to sing a song in the third round, the healing round, and then Bobby brushed us off with his Eagle fan. We each took turns standing up, a no-no and a physical impossibility in the low dome of the inipi, then he wiped away the negative energies that had been clinging onto us. It's easy to assume that these bits are just for show as he dusted her shoulders off for a few minutes, but he seemed to be putting in some serious energy work, and the same for our dude. Then it was my turn for him to wipe away my worries of this being for real, but just a quick once over and he said, "Well, looks like you're pretty clean." So either he was legit and could pick up on what I'd been putting down, or he meant hygienically sterile and was obviously a senile old fool. JK, I'd actually done laundry and showered at the hotel, per the request of the queen, freaking colonizers.

And Bobby was definitely for real, I'd not even spoken very much and he could feel my growing connection, although maybe those two are related. He shared some stories as we headed back to his hotel, one was about the time he met the Dalai Lama and they had an energetic conversation above the heads of the dinner table, cool. Us boys were all about hanging out for more shared wisdom, and you'd think she woulda been too, especially after she was gifted the sacred Eagle fan from ceremony, but she just wanted to ditch the old timer and go out to eat. We were going to see him again the next day anyway, he was down to sweat once more as obviously I was, but she had a different water park in mind.

Dinner was fancy, she felt like splurging after a hard day of soul spelunking. She ordered a sixty dollar steak and I got the cheapest entree, a forty-five dollar pork chop. I know I mention prices more than you'd expect from someone who doesn't even believe in money, and it's sad that this is the unit of measure for our colonized diet, but I do have to admit that it was the best pork chop I've ever eaten. Hands down. I may not personally use money, but her money had certainly made this milestone possible, which gave her ultimate authority over my epic mealtime, which justified her to reach over and try the first piece as soon as the waiter set it down. He gave me a look of disbelief and I just smiled and nodded, and then I prayed over the remainder of my dinner. Aho mitakuye oyasin.

The next day brought us back to the hot springs of a cool autumn breeze, but this time even Bobby had to pay at this fancy shmancy spa with 23 sparkling pools of varying temperature. She covered my fare, more than fair treatment for her freeloading stowaway, but once admitted, I found a vacant tub off to the side, 103 degrees with a 356.4 degree snowcapped rocky mountain view. Absolutely stunning, a bewildering scope of mesmerizing wilderness, and the other one percent was made up of a profitized plastic packaging production facility, whose business it was to bottle the very essence of this town's claim to fame, and then to export it to the highest bidder. But at least this time if the pipeline leaks, it's not the end of the world.

*******

The flow of water on our planet is a vital element of her survival. A never ending cycle of waves and current, that when energized by the Sun, lift into the air and pour rainbows across the seas of inland plant life. The clouds burst to quench the thirst of all-natural forest fires, and the vast oceans displace the magmatic production of islands to conquer, as they absorb campfire carbon from the atmosphere.

The Earth maintains a delicate balance between fire and water. It's supposed to anyway. They are designed to work symbiotically to regulate her operating temperature. Like these hot springs, we're kicking it in Unci Maka's overflow valve. The water circulated through the heat of our planet's core, through the radiator of her engine block, and then it was pressured to escape as it resurfaced to find the buttholes of the one percent. This flow of energy is essential to the climate control of the Earth, and the vibrational quality of this Earth song directly from the source, is incomparable to any bottle of bicarbonated sodium.

The waters are medicine, directly from the heart of our mother. And what would happen if we poured a bunch of concrete into them, and dammed their destination as we exploited their energy production capabilities? It sounds ridiculous to me too, but certainly they could power that factory over there. A pressurized system of geothermal energy, and all it means is desecrating yet another indigenous sacred site of spiritual connection – where do we sign up?

And then what do you suppose happens to the steam released cooling system as it finds the foundation of resistance? At least until we set up ours? The core of the planet would start getting hotter, just like a plugged radiator, and then the entire globe would begin to warm. Ok, so maybe we better not try that one, that would obviously get us into hot water, plus we still want to get into it, but that won't stop us from damming every single river to a life sentence of stagnation. Unflowing lochs and heated ponds, instead of the rapid cooling motion of a raging river. Why on Earth would we stop up the natural water cycle that makes our planet the only hospitable orb in the known universe?

Rhetorical obviously, it's for the same reason that we use the ocean's water to dissipate nuclear fusion and to frack away the frickin mountains – the ultimate quest for power. Gotta have more energy to operate more machines, which require more water to take the heat, though with our man-sized understanding of mechanics, you'd think that we could wrap our egos around the fact that the planet's cooling system, is just as important as the bulldozer's.

But as our Monkey brains invented the mechanisms of manipulation, we also fabricated the justification to move the Earth at our will. We motorized her cycles as we proudly parted her waters, with little-to-no thought about the interspecies highway that we permanently closed for construction, although that was still more consideration than the filthy flooded natives got. But now we have enough electricity to sell to the city that just popped up through our artificially induced farmland fertility, plus, they can still drink the water for another few years before it runs black. Ain't no river wide enough to sustain our cesspools of overpopulation, so we'll even reroute it through the land to irrigate crops and wash our Cow crap down stream, and now the slow flow heatsink is unable to cool us off as it collects an unnatural amount of solar energy, and Mosquitos.

But water's water, it's not even toxic yet, it'll just evaporate into thick air, although certainly at a much faster rate than if it were still in that cool mountain spring. The closed system of a car's radiator manages to maintain equilibrium, but only if we keep a lid on it, and I know all too well the drastic temperature increase of instantly evaporating a bucket of cold water on the fired-up heat of the stone nation. We're turning the planet into a sweat lodge with every natural flow that we vaporize.

*******

Sure, what goes up must come down, which only exports more water to the rising temperature of our ocean levels, though it does back up the prophecy that america will dry up and egypt will once again be an oceanfront paradise. Or maybe the whole thing will just burn to the ground. Especially in a region where entire water systems have been stolen in order to hydrate the stars of dasani commercials.

LA consumes two-hundred billion gallons of water a year, and there's not a single cementless pond for miles, though they do have a cemented river that imports water from less-hipster regions. California siphons one and a half trillion gallons from the colorado river, but most of that goes to the farms that somehow sprung up in the most arid areas, while the rest of the state is suffering from extreme draught. There's not enough water in california to sustain life, water being the primary component of sustaining life, yet we're still building more mansions in the hills of beverly.

And we act like it's some natural disaster that the dried up hills light up faster than the state of california can know that they're the cause of cancer. It's no disaster, forest fires are nature's way of regulating the forest. It's gotten old and dried out, so a good once over and the big trees are revitalized, while the underbrush is cleared of fuel buildup and has a chance for new growth. It pushes out invasives, disease, and unhealthy insect infestations, all three of which help the bigger locals to maintain a healthy forest.

And a lot of plants love a charred landscape, the pyrophytes, even some delicious flame-broiled treats like blueberries and morels. Forest fires are a vital element of our planet's evolving growth, they help her to get a fresh start when her liquid cycles become stagnant, like we have become. The native wildtenders knew the importance of fire, and managed the burns that proliferated traveling ecologies, spanning from roasted Chestnuts to roaming Buffalo. And even america tried its hand at intentional trailblazing, as we set fire to the Navajo's vast Peach orchards in another failed attempt at the unpopulation of unsettlement.

So then why is the firefighter one of the most revered humanitarians on the planet? Oh yeah, because the humans only care about the humans. And their permanent claim on private property. The Earth is healthier after a fire, the animals that weren't able to escape in time are probably hung up in your fence line, and indians simply moved their tipis to the next campsite. The only reason we have to fly in giant buckets of even more water removed from the problem, is to cling onto this dumb idea of permanence. Of property and stuff and material wealth, but I finally made it big enough to build a house bigger than a neighborhood, so it's my right as a homeowner to use that much water to pretend that there's not a planetary water shortage.

But what kind of monster am I? Would I just have the poor folks of a siliconed over valley burn to death? No. Not at all. I would have them go on vacation. Travel. I would have them look outside and see the devastation that is on its way, and hope that they were smart enough to abandon any idea that the cause of this impending doom, could somehow offer protection from it. I got news for ya bud, the Earth is cleansing herself of our destructive way of life, and there's only two options: Join the team, or go down in flames, only you can prevent forest fires.

*******

So this miraculous nomadic lifestyle only displaces the concern of disaster, as well as the need to create it, but wouldn't you still need nestle to infiltrate the water supply? How could we travel freely without buying a bottle of water pumped without penalty? What's the possible harm in extracting 400 gallons a minute of our Earthly coolant system, and storing it in plastic bottles?

You mean besides BPAs leaching into your liver? The only real damage is that it's completely hazardous for our planet's health. Not the plastic, well yeah, that too, but just the concept of storing excessive water in artificial containers, is detrimental to the equilibrium of the planet. How much water do you think is tied up for the next million years as it sits unsold or littered by the roadside? Or better yet, how much leaded fluoride water is sitting still in the billions of miles of indoor plumbing and municipal infrastructures around the colonies? At least your two-dollar twenty-ounce is just that, it removes far more from the radiator to empower the convenience of tapping the source directly, and that's not even counting the billions of gallons that go right down the drain.

The global water crisis is hardly on anyone's radar, because the waterworks ensures us that there's no monopoly, and that they'll be able to process the petroleum right out of it. Or the natural gas that pipeline neighbors can literally burn out of their tap water, from the comfort of their own home. But those who understand the mechanics of combustion, should be terrified. They know to keep the radiator full at all costs, which has removed another few billion gallons to keep the carbon emissions at capacity, but they don't even think about the shortage of water being the culprit of our overheating planet, so they just dump antifreeze right into the engine, while there was a case of water bottles in the backseat.

So what can you do now that you're on board with the nomad parade? Just fill up your reusable container every time you're near water. That's what I do. It's what the bus does. It's what hikers on the trail do. It's what every animal does internally. It's what the indians did too. And what if you prefer to live where there's not an abundant source of water nearby? Well, I think evolution can figure that one out on her own.

We need water in our lives, it is our lives, it should be the greatest priority in your life, like it is to all those who are dying of dehydration through the direct actions of colonization. Our planet is dehydrated. You know what that feels like, it's a hangover, you feel like crap, your whole body aches while your insides don't work right, you're slow and sluggish, and hot, you feel like you're going to die. Now, doesn't it sound inhumane to just sit around and let your mother thirst to death, while you reserve your fancy water for humans? It's also worth remembering that all of the humans will share the same fate as the planet they are a part of, at least those not dedicated to the symbiotic protection of Unci Maka's most vital component.

And remember the bit of indian wisdom about turning containers upside-down, so as not to disrupt the natural flow of water? Hmm, maybe those dummies of a native tongue weren't quite as stupid as the water parting party that first discovered india. Mmm, spicy.

It's also widespread indigenous knowledge that men are keepers of the fire, and women are the vessels of water. It's another one that the colonized feminist wants to combat in order to ensure gender equality, often taking issues with native gender roles, but it's that colonized mindset that only ensures that the women who make it to the top tier of the patriarchy, are even more lost than the men are. It's not some made up folklore that keeps Jack playing with fire while Jill fetches water, it's a natural law about the flow of energy through our beings, and our personal connection to our planet. If anything, it's definitive proof that the patriarchy is destroying the world.

*******

It's all about balance. The whole Red Road is about maintaining your center as you navigate between extremes, it's why the heyoka performs the ceremony backwards to retain the balance of power. Too much water, and the fires that sustain life will be extinguished. Too much fire, and we'll be living in the hell that we see unfolding around us. The patriarchal civilization that dominates the globe, has suppressed the power of the woman's essence in every capacity. As if she were a completely different species, we've enslaved her to the same fate as the other prisoners of war.

An outside look at our planet's composition, should see the entanglement of reds and blues in the same ratio that decides our rigged elections. But our war-torn planet is overpowered by those who only see red, and for a woman to be elected, she must succumb to the policies of the patriarchy. We are stronger together, she shouldn't be chastised for her emotional mind, she should be praised for it. It is that emotion that connects her to the curves of the planet, and helps her to see outside of the streamlined reason that man swears by, especially when that reason is money. Women's rights shouldn't be about their right to live in a man's world, it should be about the right of everyone to live in a world of equilibrium. Women are better multitaskers, men think linearly, it's not discrimination, it makes us a good compliment to one another, instead of us just running the ship straight into the ground.

Men have been in charge of the world for a long time, and we are simply not as physiologically adept to connecting with the water, which is why we use the inipi to purify ourselves and sweat out the toxins that allow our fire to get out of hand. Except that the colonized worldview demonizes such ritualistic practices, while they villainize the conniving woman that is to blame for the fall of humanity.

The book that we based the infection of colonization on, is plain as day about the subservient role of woman to man, and it has disempowered women in every facet of civilization. White men run the world, and because of this, our waters will soon run black. The purely profit reasoning of the white men atop every industry ever, has built a system that spends zero energy on considering an alternative to burning the planet alive. We don't need women to work their way to the top of our pyramid, we need them to use their natural connection to the Earth and her water, to overthrow the whole thing.

Lakota traditional gender roles are not about creating a class division among the sexes, they are about maintaining the harmony and balance between two complimentary energies, yin and yang, and just because my kindergarten understanding of the indian ways leaves me unsure of the deeper meaning of their contextual relationships, I've been humbled enough to know that I don't know jack. Or Jill. So I flip every bucket I see, I don't question a women's only water ceremony, and I hold every sacred drop of the divine feminine energy with the same love and respect that I hold for the water that she carries. Mni wiconi, now let's get back to this crazy girl I'm riding with.

*******

We spent the next day at yet another hot springs, this one only accessible by rent paying hotel guests, a massive olympic-sized stone bottom pool. It was the bathhouse of the most civilized. I still couldn't stop imagining what this valley was like pre-invasion. A whole tribe cycling through the healing of the water, but even they probably weren't the only ones, of course our brothers in the animal nation were welcome as they received the same medicinal properties, without the fences of ownership.

No bathing Bears here, well, no Grizzlies at least, because of course there was an impassable gate at every naturally occurring water source in the valley. Well, there was still the river, no fence wide enough to keep me from loving you, but buildings and streets and the tracks of a coal burning evaporation engine might do the trick. But at least the Earth loving hippies who had migrated to this lovely getaway, have the pleasure of watching the river fill bottles instead of wildlife.

Couldn't we at least contain our selfish devastation to one side of the river? Once our women walk on water, maybe we could leave half of the riverside for the other 99.9% of the rest of life on Earth, I think it'd still be us getting plenty to go around. Plus, wouldn't it be much more scenic to sit in a hot spring and watch Deer frolic in the river, than to take in the toxic fog of the constant bridge reconstruction. Just a passing thought of fair-shareness, a possible way to begin the decolonization of america, because obviously my final solution has us playing beach volleyball with the Whitetails.

*******

Bobby was far less impressed by the public bathing of this private club, than by the healing of the cave, the one that he thought we held as sacred as he did. You know I did, but I was wise enough not to get my edge anywhere near her words. He invited us to a town meeting where his relationship to the sacred could really shine, she of course complained, but I was right there with him, until I wasn't.

This was part of his job, his way of securing financial resources to survive in the colonized world that we insist upon, he was a consultant on local indigenous sacred spaces. Cool, at least that's even a thing here, we needed one of him at Standing Rock. He knew all the spots, the burial grounds, the caves, the energy vortexes, and probably the uranium deposits. So if someone wanted to double check that they weren't building their house on an indian cemetery, they called him. He was essentially approving the further colonization of Turtle Island, as long as it wasn't on his people's 'property.' But, it's not like you can do any better with an ecology degree, when any job you can get, is only to further facilitate the demolition of nature.

Tonight's meeting was about a new mountain bike trail, which would boost the incoming of the tourism industry, and further the damage that speeding bikes cause, as they scar up the hillside and drive away wildlife. But more people would get out and enjoy what nature was left, and people are the priority of humanity, that's just plain english.

No graves on the route though, so you can pass go and give Bobby $200, plus he'll sing a song to open the meeting and show everyone that colonization is a-okay. Back before we sweat, he acknowledged that us water protectors had been through a lot and needed some healing, especially after the dastardly tactics of the land stealing machine. But tonight, he told us that would never happen over here in his neck of the woods – because he approved of the pipeline that bought him out. He made sure they did it in a "good way." He confirmed that their route crossed no sacred sites, at least other than his living breathing mother, who will one day feel the suffocation of hundreds of thousands of gallons poured across her face and into her broken water. I felt as sick as she will. His prayer was free, a must, but it had been at the cost of something far greater than any amount of money could ever replace.

Not that he is the only indian to profit from the construction of a pipeline, one that would have stolen the land anyway. It's going in no matter what, we need oil, they're too big to stop, might as well make a little money while I can. And if that's the defeatist mentality of the medicine person I prayed to the water with, how can I blame anyone else for doing what they have to do to survive?

We cannot continue to exist in this civilization built on the permanent demolition of nature. It just simply won't last much longer. We must topple the patriarchy and return humanity to its energetic symbiosis with the planet. It is the only way to salvage any bit of your precious convenience or technology, because the alternative, will be a complete reset of returning to the old ways, one in which most of us will not live through.

*******

Light is meant to be in motion, like the waters of the Earth. Locking it away in permanence has depleted the soul of humanity, locking away her water has caused her to overheat, and locking away our children has disconnected them from any chance of surviving the other two. But what do I know, I'm just some silly nomad who walks around talking to trees and stuff, carry on.

### V. The Next

Seeds are a most wondrous creation. The origin of creation. The infinitely small singularity that explodes new life into this universe.

Seeds are masters of patience. Prepared to wait through eternity, until their travels bring them to the precise moment when they are awakened into action.

Seeds exist only in the now. They are a culmination of the past, and they contain the entirety of the future. They are the physical manifestation of evolution.

Seeds are the containers of spirit. They await to be unlocked by the vibrational energies of the universe. They sprout new pathways through the forest of connection.

The seed of creation is inside of your DNA, it is up to you to nourish it so that it may bloom into abundance. The gateway to Eden is within us all, and your internal evolution of light, is the key to unlocking the whole thing. My words are not enough to bring you with me, but I pray that they are enough to spark a desire inside, one that inspires you to begin your own journey towards the cosmic understanding of the creator within.

*******

Speaking of seeds, I figured I should hop onto the hotel's internet, and plant the idea that I might be coming home soon, and with no permanent home, that meant I needed a couch or two. Once again, I conversed with Ziggy, and his place wasn't too far off of our route, and I would be driving, and I wasn't sure that I could handle a cross country trip with my current benefactor.

He confirmed that I could stay with him, all it would take is pulling over for gas and running with the wind. I loved the image of perplexion that this plan aroused, it almost left me hoping that the mountain pass was rocky enough to instigate my escape, but as we departed, I was reassured of my path by a Bald Eagle that escorted us out of town.

We drove through the night, and soon enough it was over. Somehow this had been the hardest week of the whole year, which included Standing Rock, but certainly it had all been for a reason. It had forced me to muster every bit of the humility that I had been accumulating, and I did it. I was proud that I'd managed to remain humble through it all. World's most humble, indeed. And now I felt prepared to step back into colonization. If I could survive what I just had, I could handle whatever civilization had to throw at me. And as they dropped me off downtown, I was right back in the middle of it all.

Just a block from my buddies at the Moog synthesizer factory, where they were all caught up on the current administration's import tax, which was ineffectively going to force an export of precious american jobs. They invented the synthesizer, in america, and most of the assembly still occurs domestically, but a few of the electronic components are no longer available outside of our outsourced obsession. So now the working class audiophiles are worried that they'll be shipped overseas, as if their fingers could ever be small enough to compete in that caged of a market. But at least they're still analog.

A Moog instrument is a wood paneled work of art, their commitment to pure vibration has solidified their permanence in the great cosmic jam scene, and they might actually hold a few secrets of the universe. The uni-verse, the culmination of each and every vibration in existence, as they weave the soundtrack of returning to unity. Their unparalleled signal flow, begins with a wave-making oscillator, an electronic component that produces a pure uncorrupted vibration. A full and complete spiral of energy, tuned-in to the great cosmic bass player. Like our oscillating Sun, or our oscillating planet, or her biggest oscillating fans.

It starts with a single sine wave, the fundamental building block of our entire vibratory existence, and the illusion begins to materialize as sine waves multiply with each other, creating increasingly complex forms of unobstructed wave particles. But this is what they call a 'subtractive synthesizer', and while its earliest phases of vibration were composed of exponential expansion, it is only through a filtered lens that the all inclusive soundscape is perceived as anything musical.

The raw energy of this infinite loop exists outside of any concept of time, and as it is propelled from the source of its creation, it travels through the 'amp envelope', which shapes the fundamental waveform as it embarks on its journey into the material universe. The envelope guides the growth of the sound's life cycle, it predetermines the character traits of the spiral's code, but its path still holds an endless schematic into the unknown.

The real magic starts to happen once this vessel of vibration enters the timeline of the notation, where it is now subjected to a world of conditioning, as it flows through the filter of experience. The 'filter' module of the conductor's keyboard, is where she can unlock the complexities of possibility, turn some knobs and push a few buttons, and all of a sudden the newborn noisemaker has evolved into a fully developed member of the jam.

The unfiltered waveform is too full, too complete, only once the frequency spectrum has been clouded into a myriad of custom designs, is the aural observer capable of understanding the mechanics of the instrumentation. The vibration now breathes, and beats, and seems to rise up as its resonance is amplified. It's my very favorite set of knobs to tweak on any piece of gear, there's an infinite realm of sounds to play into existence, and they can all be carved out of that very first fundamental frequency.

The initial energy of the everything, composes the energy of everything, yet no two sounds sound alike. And as they all find their own place among the harmonic structure of the chord chart, the entire electric orchestra builds toward the ultimate moment of complete unison, a grand finale of astronomical proportions, and the entire melodic universe is resolved as it returns to the root note of its own creation.

*******

There's of course a lot more to it than that, like the LFO, the 'low frequency oscillator', an unseen modulator of the waveform's journey. It's long spanning cycles cannot be heard directly, but its orbital influence still plays a big part in our sound's lifeline, as its invisible push and pull of knobs seems to reveal the destiny of the rock stars.

And these are all analog synthesizers, an internal circuitry that empowers an actual vibration to flow within. A handed-down integrity of life to its fullest, quality over quantity, and all in a world that seems to be converting over to a digital database. I used to do it for a job, though it didn't take much work at all. I had a piece of gear called an 'A to D converter', analog to digital, and as I recorded the honest-to-God spoken word, it was captured and rewritten as a scrambled string of ones and zeroes. A real live vibration traveled from a real live person, into a real live microphone, through a real live cable, and was then converted into some made up facsimile of something that could never be as real as live music.

Any proper groupie knows this already, live music is where it's at, and it's not just because of the parking lot scene. You're traversing a truly analog experience, actual vibrations as they combine to create actual music to your ears, and each individual listener has a unique perspective as they move across the dancefloor of destiny. And as far as playback devices go, every hipster knows that you can't beat vinyl. It just sounds fuller than the earbuds of your ipod, and that's because it is, because it is a genuine audio vibration that was singled out, captured, and carved into an impressionable piece of hot wax. And as the dj spins a tale of harmonious living, the needle-tip regurgitates a real life vibration.

And that's where I come in, as I convert the complexities of an unscribable musical experience, into a tangible unit of empirical measure. The digital revolution certainly offers the convenience of skipping the occasional moments of disharmony, but a good album tells a cohesive story from start to finish, even if a few of the songs aren't as catchy as the hits, and any skip of the needle would ensure that the dj remains a broke musician.

In order to preserve the semblance of tonality, the studio engineer must sample the wave of reality, and let the computer calculate its best sketch of how it thinks the wave should sound to an organic observer. Every second, it captures thousands of 'samples' from the incoming vibration, snapshots of the waveform in time, and it will then reconstruct a digital version by connecting the dots.

When you listen from a distance, a dot-connected masterpiece is more than recognizable as art, but the closer you zoom in, the more it just resembles a zigzag graphic of design. No artist renders a choppy curvature of the Earth, except maybe a binary etch-a-sketcher, or perhaps a patriarchal policymaker who prefers the straight lines of conformity, over the flowing nature of our mother's freedom. Ones and zeroes build boxes, not curves, and as we zoom through the shrinking of technology, we see the squares failing to find the swing of our timeless tune.

So this manmade digital copy can only ever get so close to an actual reality. The convolution of convenience enhances the resolution of the stand-in, but this infinitely complex life vibration can simply not be contained. It 'sounds' pretty good, but there's an entire spectrum of overtones that can only be 'felt', frequencies that we are evolved to perceive, but not with our ears.

Think of the 'sample rate' as the aural resolution of life vibration, and it can also be understood as the 'frame rate' of your favorite disney film, yet another fictitious forgery of an actual storyline. We also see this conversion with the pics of pixel size, an analog light vibration is captured, and a digital artifact is all that remains. The conversion of analog to digital is not a natural evolution of life, it is a systematic downsampling of our universal energies, as they are simply added to the inventory of the machine. The architecture of our current civilization, is built on a permanent foundation of colonial conversion. From the flattened waveforms of our once curvy rivers, to the migratory flows that now reside in the cubicles of the cattleyard, the Earth is being undermined, and her energy is being converted into the machine that is destroying her, and so are we.

*******

We are approaching the gateway of an evolution of humankind. I'm hoping that we take the Hopi's advice and return to our Earth Mama's side, but if the deciders of american privilege were to make the choice today, I'm afraid that they would choose door number two. A techno-dystopia that looks much more like a matrix of monocropped slaves, than it does any futuristic garden that I could ever dream up. We're being nudged along the path of complete conformity, and the microchips they've begun installing are just a single step of the plan, as they slowly convert a diverse population into a homogenized legion of mindless minions. Man and the machine are merging, just like with the computerized ecology of RoboBees, and the official plan has been coined transhumanism, augmented brains, bodies, and lifespans, no conspiracy, this one was even written up in Forbes magazine. Only we can stop the mechanized takeover of our genome, but we only ask for more.

The 5G smartgrid will be rolling out soon as well, at least that's what Tom Wheeler says, and he should know, the current administration placed him at the head of the FCC. And of course he's as qualified as the rest of the conflicted appointments, like, he used to be the president and CEO of a major cellular communications corporation. He's pretty sure that this new 5G thing will be great for business, so much so that he's announced that there's no need to wait for industry regulations, we'll just let the corporations release whatever they want, and let the public test the safety of it all. He cited that the economic gain is the most important thing, that this will be bigger than electricity, and that it'll be the forth stage of the industrial revolution. Oh boy.

It'll be the "Internet of Things", and everything in the world will be connected to it, from "pill bottles to plant waterers", and it'll be so convenient... to make sure that you swallow your pills. They plan to encase the entire planet in a web of radiation, an insanely high frequency that will be inescapable to even the remotest islander. No choice of vibrational freedom, and they've already begun installing the grid against the wishes of many mayors, but their governors already cashed the check. There's also the rumors that these frequencies can greatly alter brainwaves and stuff, but even without the scientifically-backed conspiracy theories, the official story is scary enough. They are fast-tracking the release of their new world, as they order a future of forced compliance and complete disconnection, and all we seem to care about is the convenience of eCommerce.

*******

I get the allure of convenience. I'm not trying to act like I'm too good to appreciate the range of experiences that are only possible through colonization. Only through my drastic removal from it, have I been able to see it for what it is, and even now I find myself getting sucked back into the brainwash of the mainstream. It only takes a single visit to youtube to lose a day down a Rabbit hole of video crack, especially when I can rationalize it because I'm watching stuff that pertains to my path, and there's even the synchronicity of what the universal youtube gods recommend for me next. Plus, I gotta binge watch the latest season of my stories.

This constant stream of content, is no doubt a distraction from what actually matters in this world, but the flipside is that without it, most of us would be completely unaware of what's really going on out there. It is only through the internet that I slowly began my path away from the church and eventually into spirituality, it has since greatly deepened my assumed understanding of esoteric knowledge, and it was most certainly responsible for bringing me to Standing Rock in the first place.

I most assuredly believe that a life of prayer and living in a good way, is where true wisdom and universal understandings come from, but knowing that most people in the world don't live that way, we might still need to use some data as we get it all figured out. Without this world of technology, most people would still be boxed into the small towns of their local close-minded communities, as the entire genealogy leading up to them was. But now, we're empowered to share ideas and come together, as we collectively dream the new world. So I can't quite completely denounce the use of the web to break free of the cage, at least not until enough people download this thing.

Of course, I'm using the powers of google for good, I'm sure way more people are lost in the infinite barrage of preoccupation, and I don't mean that time when the indians lived happily ever before. The internet is an endless stream of consciousness, from which each individual computer, is capable of experiencing a completely unique perspective of the digital world around them. Each computer is merely an electrical conductance machine, and it is only through the flow of connection to the source of all knowledge, that the hardware offers the illusion of intelligence. But the computer is not sentient, it is merely a vessel for you to harness the infinite power of our collective consciousness, and through the traditional pathways of an aggregated search engine, we are more apt to successfully navigate the overwhelming energy of the universe. Now that's convenient.

*******

And so's the food out there. I love it. Cheese and meat and tropical fruit and chinese take-out and take out the trash, cause all of it was wrapped in plastic. I've been eating the refuse of the colon diet ever since I left the farm, but out here in this world, I'm inundated with endless option of aisle after aisle of every conceivable concoction of commercial consumption. My personal path of navigating the fine line between abundance and excess, has me in line three, as I refine my sugar selection between the twenty-seven varieties of reese's.

And I love to cook, as do many who have helped me along my path, and those who don't, insist on exploiting my new hazardous occupation. And we're in the city, no room to forage outside of a dumpster, so what option is there but to buy into the american dream?

At least asheville is aware, so there's several options of fair trade. Like the Whole Foods, the biggest corporate name in eating clean, and now that they've been bought by Amazon, they can send a drone right to your doorstep, no need for any vibrational exchange with any step of your food's production. And on the other end of the spectrum, are the multitude of farmer's markets around town, a much more local alternative, with far less pretty packaging. Small farms, the freshest of foods, and you get to speak with those who spoke to the seeds of life that you will consume.

Artisan cheese that came from the hippest of happy cows, though they were still enslaved as they were exploited for the profit of another. But how can I knock the small farmer? Certainly way better than a kraft food feed lot, for the environment and for our bodies, and the alternative is that they close up shop, get a real job, have their food airlifted in, and join the homogenization of the monsanto machine.

Local farms are probably needed during our transition into the next, but they can't be about growing a business, they must be about growing healthy food to share with the community. The entire community, not just the human community. They can't be focused on efficiency, on profit per acre, on the convenience of modern machinery as it disconnects us from the vibrations of life. There's no room for technology in what should be the most sacred act of all, and no need for it, once we've removed the quotas of capitalism.

And what about after the collapse? No more deliveries out of town, so no pressure to maximize cashflow, and as the survivors gravitate away from the city and into the countryside, they'll have plenty of time to help tend the land. Those who live close enough to eat the food, will be the ones helping to grow it, and as they ingest the Sun's vibrations rooted in that particular landscape, they will be updated with the most current flows of cosmic connection. I trust that as this process organically develops, the Earth will guide us in the rebuilding of her gardens. Or maybe the unbuilding of her gardens.

And the fences have to go. We have no right to hold claim to any piece of land, or the life that blooms out of it. If the rest of life has any chance at becoming unendangered, it is only through our development of the ability to share. And as far as the cheese goes, the only ethical solution is to build a symbiotic partnership with our sisters in the Cow Nation. Sorry brothers, but Bull cheese just sounds a little too nuts, even for me.

*******

But Cashew cheese, now we might be onto something. Sure, it's technically not really cheese, but technically neither is cheese whiz. I'm not making this one up, you can get it airdropped from Whole Foods, plastic pack and all, or you can make it yourself like I did. Well, a friend did most of the work, but then I made a most delicious pizza pie without contributing to the incarceration of the animal kingdom.

A friend from a previous life had relocated to a-town for a new job as a wetland biologist, an actual water protector. Needless to say, we had plenty to say. She was an activist too, had wanted to come to Standing Rock, but she had that pesky job thing to worry about. She had done stuff like stream restoration in the past, but this gig was on the other end of it, she calculated the environmental impact of development, and permitted the demolition of nature.

She wasn't without dilemma in accepting the position, but the majority of jobs in the developed world are centered around the further development of the world. And she understood the importance of having someone who cares about the Earth, employed to monitor the final stage of destroying it. She got to spend her workdays in the woods, had relationships with the plant life, was more than meticulous with her ecological review of endangered species, but in the end, she was the last person that would ever see these pristine habitats again. The occupations of colonization only further the occupation of colonization.

She saw the destruction of development up close and personal, and intricately understood the implications of impact on the water, like the toxic runoff of golf courses, or the side effects of paving paradise into a parking lot, or the mysterious sludge pipe flowing into the river from an abandoned lithium mine. Or a three foot natural gas pipeline that's carving through the mountaintops of our home state.

She wasn't involved in any of our east coast pipes, but that's the kind of thing she does, although they probably prefer a much less active inspection process. But wouldn't that be something, if my magic path crossed with an inside window into the path of the pipe? Or if her expertise of endangered species, just so happened to find them popping up in the way? Geez, what a coincidence.

She had somehow managed to find a rental in town that still had woods all around it, and no tv or internet, and a fire pit, um, can I stay here for a bit? She was a vegan, and I love meat, but I was also realizing more and more of the true impact of a colonial diet. So we made Cashew cheese pizza, and tempeh indian tacos, and Almond milk ice cream. She played me music on her banjo, and I sang indian songs with her drum. We spent time by the fire discussing issues of impact, I shared Cedar with the flame, as I shared tales of my spiritual journey with her wide open heart.

She had experienced a life of prayer in the past, but had fallen away from it as she reached full fledged adulthood, instead focusing her energy on saving the world. She had transitioned into a life of connection with nature, instead of a connection to spirit, and my dedication to both, inspired her to see that they are not mutually exclusive. We prayed at every meal and she picked back up her forgotten traditions, she sang along with my prayer songs, and I was beginning to see just how real my role of spiritual midwife is gonna be.

She also cashed in her retirement and bought a school bus to pimp out for the next Standing Rock. Dope. I know just the family to ask for advice. And she's ready to leave the job when the time comes, as are so many protectors in plain sight, but if everybody is waiting until the next time, then when will it ever happen? Not that she's sitting docile until we set up against the east coast pipes, my camp experience also inspired her to spend christmas in puerto rico, helping the victims rebuild after hurricane Maria.

It sounds like it's got a similar vibe to Standing Rock, minus the ice and assault rifles, and throw in some alcohol to forget the trouble it creates, but still a coming together of the people to build community. Or rebuild it, I guess. No government support, so the people are figuring it out on their own, plus volunteers fly down to help for a week at a time. They're obviously reestablishing agriculture to feed themselves, and to feed our addiction to refining our sugar dependence, but what's the alternative, to not rebuild a civilization on a storm-torn island whose rebuilding process only adds to the problem?

But how can I ask someone to leave the place they've lived forever, just because our sedentary way of life has destroyed the stability of the climate that is vital to their ocean view? And how many times will we rebuild it in the coming days, before we realize that we can't? They may not want to leave, just like those in miami don't, but closing your eyes to the reality of the near future is only imposing devastation onto your children. And the latest reality byte I caught from the mainstream, is that our government wants to make puerto rico a natural gas and petroleum energy hub, a filling station, on an island with proven hurricane vulnerability. Buckle up boys, looks like we may not have to wait that long after all.

*******

I visited old friends, made Prickly Pear syrup, and even hung out in my old neighborhood bar. Everybody still knew my name, the same old characters, same old jobs, same old alcoholics, but at least some things never change in this world. Hung out with a friend who had read the book and loved it, she of course could hear my sarcastic tone in its delivery, but it also resonated with the angst that she'd been feeling as she tried to connect in a world built of disconnection. So she quit her job, cut the excess out of her life, and signed up to join the movement. And I talked to another friend who had started giving away their material world, and another who had been praying with their garlic, and then another asked me to pray at their dinner table, after he'd been to an indian taco party that I'd thrown together. Holy Geez Louise, it's actually working.

I spent thanksgiving with my old roommate, who last thanksgiving had been feeling compelled to go to Standing Rock, which had helped in my own inspiration. That previous thanksgiving, just before I left my previous life behind, had been the last time I'd seen my sister and her family. For some reason, it was upsetting to her when I disappeared for months into a government standoff on an iceberg. Her kids asked where I was, and that only made it worse, because she didn't know.

And then I reemerged alive and well, mostly, but I couldn't promise not to leave again, in fact, I could almost promise the opposite. How can I reassure her that I'm ok and doing what I must, and in the same breath confirm that I have given up everything we've ever known, to stand up to an evil military regime? And how dumb does that sound? I'm no secret agent, I'm just her brother, some hippie that's always got a new music thing going on, and this is just the next passing fad, but somehow I've sacrificed our relationship so that I can run off and save the world.

Why can't I just be the old me and live a normal life like everyone else? Why can't I wake up tomorrow and be asleep like I used to be. Why can't I replace the veil that has been lifted from the world around me? Why do I have to get anxiety when I'm engulfed in the conversations of colonization? Why do I get panic attacks in crowds of 'normal' people? Why can't I come to thanksgiving dinner, and not be completely cynical about the celebration of genocide?

I know that's not why you celebrate, it's not why anybody does, it's all about food and family and togetherness, but when your kids ask me about the indians on thanksgiving, I will not be able to shelter them from the truth of our country's origin. Nor should I. This unwillingness to take an honest look at ourselves, is what has raised a population of macy's day consumers, while there are currently indians being murdered by america. I know it's not your fault, I know there's nothing you can do about it, but there is absolutely something I can do, and I must.

I'm sorry that I can not simply forget about what my eyes have been opened up to. I understand that this must be confusing, as I denounce the entire way of life that we grew up in together, but I have been called for a purpose far greater than my life alone. I have dedicated my existence to ensuring that our kids will have one.

I pray for the humility to remember that as strongly as I feel about my task at hand, I am causing a ripple of hurt in the process, and I seek the understanding of how we may find a way to repair our broken connection. I'm incredibly sorry that I have caused you pain throughout my journey, and I will do all that I can to spread healing between us, as we begin to regrow the bond that is so important to us both. I think of the kids everyday and miss them dearly, please don't take my absence as a sign of my indifference, and I beg you to somehow take a moment and try to see the world from my puzzling perspective, as I pray that you'll understand how terrified I am of what the future holds for them.

I think that unless drastic measures are taken to change the way that we live on this Earth, that they are destined to a life of devastation and disease. At the same time, I think that this coming age will usher in the beauty of new abundant life, and our kids can thrive through the adversity, as they become the leaders of a new world. I only think this is possible if we remove them from the brainwash of vibrational disconnection, the food is of utmost importance, as well as an understanding that we are a part of the planet around us. Please consider that as much as I've been willing to hurt you throughout my journey, that there is a direct correlation to just how important this is for us all. I greatly look forward to the day that we can reconnect, and share understandings with open hearts and open arms. I just pray that it happens before it's too late.

*******

And then of course I couldn't go home for christmas, the most mega-capitalist holiday of them all. A house full of privileged white people, tearing away at one-time-use wrapping paper, as they ooh and aah at the latest greatest gizmos of chinese gadgetry.

It made me remember my own christmas spirit of the past, I always loved giving the perfect heartfelt gift, the greatest toy from an uncle, or tool from a grandson, or whatever I could afford for as many people as I could. I would make a list, check it twice, gather my budget, and literally put a price tag on how much I valued each relationship in my life. Not a common concern for those privileged enough to ignore the cost of close-minded celebration, or for those who hand make gifts from the heart, but as a struggling twenty-something with a single paycheck to fulfill my consumer obligation, I was forced to prioritize my love. If I found the perfect gift just outside of my range, I could cut another's quota and make it happen, but who do I love five dollars less than the rest of the family?

At the time, it just felt like a balanced budget, but now the memory makes me nauseous. So I spent christmas alone, well, with the peta wakan, and a drum, and a fireside ribeye. I still had a few drops of cheer in me, but this was no vacation, I had work to do.

*******

And now we've reached the point of my story where we may encounter a time travel paradox, my favorite of all the paradoxes, and the week before christmas is when I began writing the book that you're reading now. Woah, mind fudge, and at this rate, soon you'll be reading me write the next one. Spoiler alert: It's an action novel.

I wasn't planning on writing this, I was still burnt on the last one, but as I kept developing my own worldview while awakening to the view of the world around me, I began to see the correlations among the fences of our society. And then my heart put me on assignment. I had space to write in the woods, and a fire to pray with, and as much of an uncivilized existence as one could possibly expect within the limitations of the city.

But this life of colonization was getting to me. As much as I don't concern myself with money (which, by the way, I had to touch again, to pay for gas, double whammy), I also understood that my survival in this way of life, was dependent on the financial generosity of others. I was assured to be no burden and enticed to stay, my presence far outweighed the worthlessness of some disposable paper product, but I knew the reality of my tax on the system, as well as the plastic package that contained the animal-safe meat substitute.

I began to manifest the next step as I stole wifi from mcdonalds. Wendy was nearby, so she was on my short list, but really the farm was the closest to Eden that I'd found thus far. I talked to Ben, he said bring it on, but we were in the middle of a cold snap, so I might want to wait a week or two. Who does he think I am? I'm a frozen tipi water protector. Though I do sleep in an open-air barn up there, so maybe I can stall for a bit longer.

I saw some other water protectors at a movie premier of the Unicorn Riot documentary: Black Snake Killaz. Kinda emotional to watch, glad I was with family. A comprehensive compilation of the protest, but none of the compelling nation of community that evolved out of it. The magic wasn't in the protest part, it manifested out of the Earth as a miraculous story unfolded. It was song, and prayer, and giving, and an unintentional community that wasn't a stepping stone against a pipe, but a leap towards the future of society.

Those who wish they were there, like to say that they felt like they were, but this was something completely unimaginable. Those that watched and felt like we lost, have no idea how most definitely we won. And those who are experiencing their own pipeline fights but prefer to stick to the issues, instead of allowing an Earth-based community to froth out of her, well, they have no idea what this life is all about. We are not fighting against the maniacal empire, we are fighting for a beautiful tomorrow, and if you think you can possibly beat them at their own game, then just take a look at what you're up against. Worth a watch for sure, but there was far more awesomeness involved than just the Tigers and Swans at the frontline, I mean, they didn't even mention Rosebud.

Made a plan to chill with a Rosebuddy the next day, but an unpredicted twelve inch snowstorm swept in to grind us to a halt, freaking dapl. Decided that I might need some warmer gear, so I paid a visit to the escape cabin in Cherokee and grabbed all of my old winter stuff, standing by, ready to rock.

I'd already re-upped on brown corduroys at the goodwill. A friend thought I was being overly picky as I searched for the perfect pair, but I reminded them that I was looking for a single pair of pants, to wear everyday, for every occasion, for the next three to six months. So they should probably feel like the right ones.

And now that I was properly outfitted, it should be time to go, got a ride lined up for next weekend, and now I've successfully stalled long enough to receive the call to action that would be carrying me not to paradise farms, but to a meeting of the world saving minds, taking place eighty hours away.

*******

Where in the world even takes eighty hours to get to? West coast baby, via record snowstorm in texas, which had all the buses canceled, except for mine. 80 hour greyhound ride, so rough, especially when I got sick from no sleep, cold feet, and the purge of colonization, still better than the last road trip though. And no personal gas usage, the bus was already going there, just like the plane's jet fuel was already gonna be burned, or like how UPS was already going to be overnighting items seen on tv, so no need for a consideration of personal footprint.

Wrong. Just like how every burger you consume creates more demand for caged cattle, every box you ship adds up, each cross country flight has the emission equivalence of three lifetimes of not recycling, and this seat I'm filling counts towards my own impact tally. Especially after the snow canceled another bus, and now we're packed for delivery.

We have to drop the mentality that our fraction of the whole, doesn't affect the world around us. That the destruction is happening regardless, so what's the harm in placing our order as well? The same mindset that has us convinced that one voice can't make real change in the world, has instilled the belief that one person's poison can't destroy a vast ocean of life. But eight billion can.

You are a part of a massive global community, assume that everyone else is living as destructive a lifestyle as you, do you want to drink the water that eight billion people dump their waste into? Or breathe the hot air of eight billion exhausting egos? Or live in a world condensed to Cows, Corn and E.Coli, the only species worthy of life to the eight billion humans who square-off the four-ticulture in every monetized direction? If you don't want to live in the filth of 7,999,999,999 other pollutants, then the first step belongs to you. You're the most important one, and if you can't convince yourself to respect your own mother, then why would anyone else?

The level of devastation that we've become capable of inflicting, is only possible through a collective group effort, so any argument against humanity's ability to bring change into this world, is a blatant shortchanging of the superiority that we have based our entire civilization on. You can't have it both ways. Either we are kings of the world, and therefore responsible for the well-being of all who live in our kingdom, or we are but peers to the rest of life on Earth, and it is our duty to restore the stolen balance of power, as we return our mother to the throne.

And no, it is not our fault, we are the children who inherited the destruction of our fathers. Many generations before us built this castle, any one of them could have relinquished their assumed authority over the impoverished populations of the world, we had no control over the upheaval of natural law. We were born into this privilege, there's not a thing we can do about that, it serves no purpose to carry the guilt of denial, when the only thing we can control are our own actions in this world. And we have two options: we can continue to relish in the spoils of oppression, as we become yet another generation who passes on the belief of our righteous reign of terror; or we can usurp the powers that have been, and give the kingdom back to its rightful heirs, which still includes us and our children. It's kind of a win/win/win to the eight billionth power.

But if math's not your strong suit, we can stick to the fairy tale of self-importance. Not the white superiority, or the male superiority, or even the human superiority, I mean our concept of generational superiority. It's undeniable really. We've been over and over our lack of forethought into the generations beyond us, we've shown them even less equality than the little black cowgirls of the barnyard, why, we've even treated them worse than the indians. And those who came before? We only laugh at our ancestors' foolish traditions and slow-paced ways of life, we can't wait to kick them to the curb, when we finally assume our roles as the true rulers of our personal planet. This world was built for living in the now, and right now it's our turn, and as far as we're concerned, our generation is the only one that even exists. Pump what you want, burn what you want, flood what you want, what's it matter to us, we'll be dead and gone soon enough anyway.

*******

Ok, so maybe the world was built for us. Maybe we are the only generation to ever matter. Maybe all the history books are just implants in our memories, like the old wives tales of evolution and dinosaurs, just a backstory for us to believe, as we get to experience a day in the life of humanology. Nobody after us matters, the future is just an illusion of a time to never come. Maybe the entire point of living, is simply to feel what it's like to be alive in such an incredibly vast expanse of unique ways of life.

We are the only generation who can experience such complexity of experience. We can in one day eat the foods of the entire globe, we can ride and drive and fly and go to outer space, we can vicariously experience every fathomable existence through the controllers of the screen, and we can go virtually anywhere with the culmination of the entirety of life on Earth in the pocket of our designer jeans.

The Earth was obviously built for us. How could something this incredible not be by design? All those before us just led boring lives of labor, and those sentenced to tomorrow, will certainly not enjoy this fading life of luxury. Even I believe that we are living in one of the most important times of human history, a true turning point of life on Earth, and I am grateful for every day that I am lucky enough to be alive during such a monumental occasion.

So if the whole point of life is to enjoy this abundant world of excess, without concern for our place in some made up concept of time, if we really are all that matters, then we are obviously the only ones who can do anything to affect anything around us. And if that's the case, then what do you think the real plot of this even more miraculous story is supposed to be?

It could just be some action movie with tons of excitement and stunts and stuff, but no real depth to the script. Or a chick flick that only sees the world of the two in love, as they've forgotten about everyone else. Or a family film whose only bad guys are still cartoon sopranos. The whole point of existence, could just be for you to visit Earth and squander all of your time at some mundane job, while you experience a few of the finer things in life at the expense of destroying the entire stage. Or maybe this made up dreamworld is built for the most epic period piece of all time. If my character is defined by my role in this single walk through life, then I'm going to shine as bright as I can in hopes of getting picked up for the sequel.

I believe that we are here on Earth to experience all of those finer things, to use our unique perspectives to build a composite image of what is truly possible within the cosmic mind, to be fully enveloped in comedy and tragedy, and most importantly love, to enrich our souls as we further our understanding of the universe, to come to a realization that the world around us has been corrupted by the dark side, to embody the hero archetype on our own personal journey of transformation, and to come together in the most fantastic tale of human survival imaginable as we stand united in the face of pure evil. The biggest movie of our generation, is a complexly woven narrative that chronicles the coming-of-age of mankind, it is his story. And the final act into which we are now embarking, is the culmination of eight billion storylines that have been intricately building to the same grand finale, the ultimate battle of light versus darkness. And even hollywood got this part right - the good guy always wins.

We are all on our own adventure. We are free to unfold the universe at our whim. The seed of destiny has been planted in each of us, but it is up to you to answer its call. You can live a life of ordinary meniality in the background of the black and white, or you can be the next breakthrough superstar who delivers a once-in-a-lifetime performance, in the most captivating story of all time. The choice is yours, your will is free, but I'm pretty sure I know which one will get a thumbs up from the box office upstairs.

*******

No in-flight movie on the bus though, but plenty of colonized conversation to test my patience. The most aware of the crew, was a recent release from the big house, but luckily the other passengers were happy to reassimilate him back into society.

We were delayed because of the impending doom of record blizzards, story of my life, and as I asked for directions to the nearest store of convenience, so that I could stop this fourth five-spot from burning a hole in my soul, I was warned that it was far too treacherous outside to navigate to the lights emanating from across the bridge. A quick glance down at my well-worn winter regalia, and yeah, "I think I'll be alright."

The one redeeming factor of the other seventy-nine fifty-one, was when I rendezvoused with a friend for a nine minute layover along the way. I'd seen that our paths would cross and offered a heads up, but I have no phone to remind, or to confirm the miraculous lack of snow delay, and many of my accomplices are generally a little too burned out by nine in the morning to remember an appointment made days earlier. But as I pulled up to the greyhound station in Anywheretown, there stood my homie, bright eyed and bushy tailed. I gave him a Moog patch that I saved for him as I was giving away the last of my personal effects, and he gave me a bit of medicine for the road to recovery, then I got back on board and waved to my brother as he walked away into the sunrise, guitar in hand, singing the ballad of Ziggy Zag.
Trees are a most wondrous creation. They are the intermediaries between heaven and Earth. They touch the untouchable ceiling, yet they are rooted to the core.

Trees bring life into fruition. They interpret the dreams of the Sun, through the heart of Unci Maka. They exude the apple of the eye of their creator's most vivid fantasies.

Trees are the ultimate vessels of water. They branch out in all directions, as rivers come together. Among the flow of their limbs, can be found a map to the stars.

Trees are a wealth of knowledge. If time is taken to listen to their leaves, they will tell a story far greater than the pages of any book.

The trees of our planet play a far greater role than simply creating the oxygen that we breathe, they are among the wisest of our relatives, and the backbones of our being. Just as they scientifically facilitate the flows of Earth, water, fire and air, they are also conduits for the unseen energies that breathe life into this world. Only by rebirthing our connection to the trees of this planet, will we be successful in healing the waters of Unci Maka.

*******

Speaking of trees, I had now arrived in a land of conflicting legalities. I was free to purchase the medicine of the Earth without prescription, but the recently relaxed laws of the logging industry, had enabled widespread clearcutting and the conversion of forests into tree farms. It was now easier to attain permits, and more profitable to perform the ecocide, and even the hazards of the road were increased as the speeding trucks were paid per load, and incentivized to squeeze the maximum amount of trips onto the narrow mountain passes. And just as with the pipelines that I may have mentioned earlier, the tree carcasses were en route to the land of ports, where they would promptly be exported to china.

Sure sounds like a fair trade, the clearcutting customs of providing raw materials, as we import cheap knock-offs of a quality life, but selling our trees to purchase our floors is no way to walk on this Earth. I personally know from my previous life in industrial woodworking, that the all important job market has been drying up for decades, as it becomes increasingly cheaper to send german equipment to china, as well as american hardwood forests.

And there's the european training consultants who teach the unregulated underage workforce how to not cut off their hands, who then load flooring and furniture onto a boat, for a return voyage to a country that would never allow their tiny fingerprints to pass through the customary walls of separation. It's one thing to be proud of the american-made exploitation of an impoverished land's 'natural resources', but how can the patriots of the greatest country in the world, be willing to cut it down to size and hand it over to the commies? Oh yeah, money, duh.

Gotta have it, makes the world go round, and as we cut down the world to ship it around the world, it becomes a small world after all. Used to take eighty days to circumvent the globalism, but I just coasted across the country in eighty hours. And while all it cost me was a pack of smokes to keep my sanity, plus a slice of pizza for a brother with a bud, it was not because of greyhound's "hippies ride free" policy. My gracious host funded the excursion, and was mostly reimbursed by a team of ashvillians who would pay anything to see me leave, so it seems I was the conduit for both import and export taxation.

The pricelines of the itinerary also compounded interest due to my travel deadline. The rush and rush to get things done. There were instances to be gratified. I, of course, don't make plans, and therefore I'm ever late, but somehow precisely where I'm supposed to be at all times. This last minute flight change though, meant that my journey must be expedited to a fast-paced eighty hours, in order for me to get to work on time. Otherwise, I'd just have hitchhiked.

It was one of the new and few tricks in my bag, would have made for a much better story, and I wouldn't have arrived as discombobulated as I did after three days of bus lag. I have experienced the blissful connection of traveling at a human pace, along with the spectrum of techno-travel that evolved from our very first foray into invention. The wheel. Skateboard to bike to dirtbike to motorcycle to cubed-in car to cramped-in coach seating, and as you become more isolated from the scenery and speed past the outside world, it has a jarring effect on your being, as your spirit seems to lag behind your material self.

But even me, the leisurely nomad, still fell victim to the ticking time bomb of colonialism. I certainly could have said no, I'll get there when I get there, who cares if it takes me a week of walking adventures to arrive at the next step of the journey? But then I would have missed the most epic reunion of Rosebuddies in the history of water protection. And you know I had to be there, Rosebud won't go hungry on my divested account.

*******

Still somehow on time, I rolled up as they had one waiting for me, a little surprised they remembered my scheduled arrival, though if Ziggy had managed, then I guess anything's possible. Two of my close brothers were there, you already know Dean, who was in charge of this shindig, and Randy, who I didn't at all expect to see outside of the rez. This is about to be unreal. As promised, I'm going to be elusive and confusitive about the identities of my family, but just know that throughout my travels, I've seen all but about ten of those who I mentioned in that last piece of work.

And once we'd booked it back to the compound, Dean presented me with a most incredible welcome home gift: A water protector bandana/illegal-facemask, some heady crystals, a tub of cannibutter with which to chef it up, the glass piece I'd left at the tarpee and assumed to be bulldozed by the national guard, and the very first edition of a printed copy of my very first book.

Wow. This was so cool. I'd only ever seen it on the screen. This was much easier to read, not as overly thick as I'd worried, and way more magical to randomly open a page up to. I was overtaken with gratitude as I hugged my brother, who had been reading his copy, and luckily agreed with my take on his character.

Oh, yeah, I guess I'm going to have to see all these people again, hope I didn't offend anybody. There were certainly a few honest portrayals, but I think I left it vague enough that if one were to recognize themselves through what they considered to be negative character traits, perhaps that would clue them into a subconscious yearning for self-improvement. Plus, we're the only ones who will know who's who, and we already know how you are.

More brothers and sisters excitedly popped in for hugs, though most would arrive tomorrow, and then I caught wind of who was crashed out on the couch - geez, can't seem to shake these two. It was none other than old Tokey Smokey and Unci Carolyn, now we got a party.

So nice to be back around the family, especially in a setting without the heat of the militarized blizzard. With the exception of those I'd seen at Sun Dance, I'd been out of sight, so I think I took a few by surprise. "Oh, and I hope you don't mind sleeping in the bus outside..." Actually, that somehow still sounds pretty great.

*******

The weekend's events were good medicine, for sure, a chance for much healing and reminiscing about that time we survived the apocalypse together. And of course we ate good, cookies, brownies, a chocolate fountain, and that was just the edibles. But enough about our private affair, it was by invitation only, so maybe you better leave before the flood rolls in.

The next week brought even more reunions, and nobody else seemed in a hurry to leave, especially after we got the go ahead to put up a lodge. Our uncle showed up to pour, Randy headed up the construction crew, which turned out to be quite the undertaking in the wetlands of the rainy season. We went on a mission for Willows to build the frame, which we were going to assemble in a literal mud pit. Made a floor of fallen wood, packed it with sawdust, covered that with black sand from a covert beach operation, flooring of ferns, a layer of burlap, and then a top coat of Cedar. High and dry, and I was pretty impressed with how well it turned out. We had a bunch more burlap to build the shell, then some blankets, and finally a giant canvas that had made the return trip from Standing Rock with Dean. Authentic memorabilia, nice.

And it was nice to be able to bring my brothers and sisters back into ceremony. Some had been to Sun Dance, but most hadn't sweat since camp. I was already feeling the two months I spent in colonization, I can't imagine the level of disconnection that must have been brewing in those whose path had not kept them connected to ceremony. I also know that my good fortune was of no coincidence. I didn't simply luck into a year of prayer, it was my commitment to the prayer that had kept me walking in this way, and had me traveling through the circles of healing that continued to build this growing connection to spirit.

My unwillingness to ignore the call of my heart, and the certainty that I felt with every step into the unknown, had enabled me to recognize when my prayers were being answered. Like when I found myself at the farm. Prayer was the focus there, as well as clean local food, so my single prayer and single song were able to be multiplied exponentially, by the vibrations of a community as committed to this way of life as I was. Which took me to Sun Dance, hello, somehow a place where I was even more connected to this vibration of life. And every time I gave myself over to spirit, and each time I shed the material belongings that weighed me down, it seemed that I was given even greater opportunities to grow my power of prayer.

Including this trip. I'd been in colonization just long enough to share my heart, and to feel it growing anxious about escaping the cage, started praying and hatching a way out, gave away the last of the stuff, and now I'm here setting up another lodge with my closest of relatives.

Can't talk about the prayer, but it was a good one, and the rest of the night brought merriment and music and dancing and good times all around. And then it got weird. A sister was overtaken with something, she went into an altered state and began freaking out as she warned us that, "The next is coming."

Um... yeah... about that... Maybe some thought it was a psychotic break, but I assume it was a connection to an energy that genuinely sent warning of something big on the way. But I didn't blink twice - because I've already had the same vision.

*******

The next week brought a different vision though, a much more catastrophic image than the destruction of civilization, a few of us took a headtrip out into the devastated expanses of the clearcut. It was possibly the grossest thing I've ever seen. How could anybody possibly feel good about doing this to a forest? I'd heard of clearcutting before, but nothing could have prepared me for the carnage I was walking through. Even my premature assumptions were bad enough, I had imagined a field of stumps, which there were, big stumps, grandmother trees, four and five foot wide some of them, those that the rest of the forest would keep alive through the roots, except that they were all gone too.

As we started into the wreckage, there were roads for the trucks, and on either side were haphazard piles of the trees too small to sell. Then, as we traveled deeper into our exploration, we had to navigate over these springy webs of fallen five-inchers. I guess the heavy equipment just drives right over top of this mess, the dying bodies of my brothers in the Tree Nation.

It was like this for as far as you could see, a miserable wasteland that used to be a mature forest with five foot trees. Dean said that when he got 'his' five acres, it was surrounded by hardwoods as far as you could walk in a day, and now it's an island of nature amongst a sea of the most grotesque woodline imaginable.

The neighbors apologized profusely, they had no idea it would be anything like this, they probably thought 'clearcut' had something to do with the check they were getting. And I doubt that the logging company was too specific, on not only the complete annihilation of life, but also the despicable way in which they would leave the land. "Oh, yeah, it's sustainable, we'll replant rows and rows of a fast growing species, no worry about that, monocrop tree farms sustain plenty of financial futures."

Plus, there's probably just enough degrees of separation between the purchasing agent, and the lumberjacks who are willing to leave a forest in this condition, so that way the sale of logging rights goes through with plausible deniability. Like with pipelines, the guy who writes the checks assures the farmers that construction won't be any more destructive than a tractor, and then a path of infertility is poured through yet another family farm, while monsanto's profits go up. But hey, the indians didn't even get that empty promise.

We could still hear chainsaws in the distance. Dean said they started at six every morning, for months, he just stood at the edge of his space and shook his head, but Paul Bunyan didn't even realize he was doing anything wrong. Just doing my job, sir. Making america great again. And good news, this trade deal with china not only got us four american jobs per four acres, but since we're exporting it all, we can tack on another bazillion to our grossest national product.

A protector who had been living out here for a while was ready for action, ready to lock down, or whatever the next level is. There wouldn't be much incognito Mosquito, a commune of hippie activists right in the middle of vandalized logging equipment, what a coincidence. Or we could go up in the trees, but they're technically not doing anything illegal, only immoral, so it would be hard to get any outside support, when others sitting to stop the misuse of eminent domain only receive the notice of eviction.

Plus, they're cutting the whole forest. With a pipeline you only have to block the path, here they could just go around you. I guess if you had enough people up there you could halt the demolition, but the ultimate goal, has to be to get the state to rescind the law changes that enabled this disgusting business deal to go through. Wonder how many concerned and dedicated citizens would have to stand up, and climb up, to sway the executive branch into action? There's got to be a number, a ridiculously high one maybe, but how many voters is enough to outweigh the purchasing power of the lobbyists? Unless they just charge us with felonies like in Standing Rock, then we can't vote anyway, just like all the black pot smokers. Well, I did say the next book was about action...

We finally came down from sitting in the trees, in a saddened state of unfairs. Even if you didn't feel any connection to nature at all, this still woulda felt like a hurricane to the heartland. We could argue the 'more homes than homeless' angle, private property and rental investments and the building up of america, converting fantastical forests into the american dream of progress, but how is this good for anybody but china? Certainly no flag toting american would like that idea, they look far too much like the indians.

*******

And even more indians were stunned by my frybread skillz, Randy especially, though once he saw me making it like a grandma, he knew I had it on lock. We had gotten here on the same day, so we ended up roommates on the bus, and then in a spare square inside, but I'd much rather have been in a tipi.

Minus the conical home, the place was still a proper hippie compound. A house, a few buses, a camper, a big army tent from camp, Chickens and Ducks and almost as many Dogs as people, one was even a Standing Rock vet. There was a central barn-kitchen-garage chill spot, Randy and I opened up a mechanic shop for the convoy, worked our way up to pulling an engine, and almost got it to crank back up.

Tons of projects to keep us busy, and games, and art contests, and jumps and spins and stunts and stuff, and it was a regular old powwow. Not quite, but we did make it to seattle for one, indoor due to the hundred and twenty percent chance of rain, fun time, though it was way smaller than the Rosebud Fair had been. Also made it to washington's capital building, state not DC, for a plea to the government to refuse permits for Puget Sound Energy's illegal LNG pipeline construction on treaty land. Seems to be some kind of pattern.

Some of our local Rosebuddies had been arrested the previous week as they set up tipis on the front lawn. They managed to stay there for a few days, but the unarmed sleeping women were eventually raided in the middle of the night, by fully geared up riot cops. We gathered inside and sang a few songs, a few politicians poked their heads out to do some politicking, and then we bumped into even more water protectors on our government mandated smoke break.

The coming weeks saw a steady flow of water protectors at the commune, and that's really what it was turning into. We all worked together to run the show, cook and clean and garden and what not, we had finally brought the family back together and nobody wanted to see it end. Can't just one thing be permanent in this world?

*******

Seems that permanence is even less of a thing in this wet environment, anything made of wood will start to rot much faster than in the dry air of the plains, so you have to paint it all. We put a shower into the shop, but don't they know we're dirty hippies? And in the off-chance we used it, we had to paint each piece of wood framing.

It's the 'right' way to build something. If it's worth building, it's worth building to last. And if you're spending that kinda money, and hard work, then it only makes sense to build it strong. So we coated each piece of biodegradable two by four, who were only a couple bucks each due to the falling prices of our brothers at the tree farm, with another miraculous product of the dupont chemical corporation. So now it'll take way longer to 'rot', which sounds way less glamorous than to 'continue the sacred circle of life', but at least the water based paint is super safe to manufacture, and to dispose of, and to decompose into our groundwater.

Of course, even the dumbed down EPA classifies paint as one of the top five hazardous substances, it's full of chemicals like formaldehyde and arsenic, which explains why it causes the same cancers as cigarettes. But without it, we'd just be pouring money down the drain, which I was asked not to do with the paint cleanup, because it would clog the pipes, but what exactly is washing it outside gonna clog? Or the oil based polyurethane that we used for the exposed wood, just looks so much prettier, excluding the animals that encounter a nice new clear coat. What's the difference in coating water pipes with oil and putting oil pipes in the water? Scale, certainly, this was just a gallon, not the 400,000 of the latest leak, but if everyone coated their tipi poles with a gallon, we'd have eight billion floating around as the flood rolls in.

And in the garage we used a tube of gasket maker and a can of starting fluid, based on the way they smell, I can't imagine that either are too eco-friendly, but it's just what you use to fix cars. There's simply not an eco-friendly alternative, because cars are simply not eco-friendly. So how righteous can my new career be, if I'm only further enabling more cars to be on the road? Or am I decreasing the need for more cars to be produced?

A new car takes 40,000 gallons of water to fabricate, plus a bunch of chemicals and plastics and emissions, but the important part is that they'll give you a better interest rate as they lock you into the roll cage. Plus some people just gotta have the latest greatest automobilia, how else will we know how successful they are? So there's always demand, and always used cars sitting around junkyards, and some are even still built to last, which the oil-based government took care of, when they offered incentives to crush old cars in order to bail out the crashing auto industry. For a country so insistent on letting the free market dictate direction, doesn't it seem amiss that every one of our major product lines, only turn a profit due to the interference of government subsidies?

Cars are the biggest killer in the country (excluding slaughterhouses), and they're killing the planet. So instead of weaning ourselves off of them once we'd manufactured enough for every person to drive themselves crazy, we opted to destroy the most affordable ones and crank up production. It's not even just the billions that auto lobbyists spend to bribe the government, it's also the worker's unions that they will be speaking with during the next election cycle. Gotta save the most american jobs, what are we gonna do, drive some ching chang japanese hybrid? Though now even ford has had to break the bonds of their petroleum partnership with their own hybrid model, of course, way back in the beginning, Henry himself told us that alcohol was a superior fuel, yet the only option we've ever known was a cupholder for a cornfed coca-cola. Enjoy.

They're not gonna stop making cars until they are forced to. Business. But supply and demand has no affect when we openly rig the market. There's no real effort to move away from oil until we have exhausted every drop, but even a cornfed engine would be hazardous to the animals it encounters, plus, even the roads themselves are toxic to the flows of our planet's moving life cycles.

From the outside, or from an atlas, our vast road network is quite blatantly an asphalt cage that is constricting the Earth. Even without the cars, this web of tar would stop the migration of life dead in its tracks. A chicken may cross the road, but the high speed interweb of tree roots and microbiology, can't. The roundabout of life is about far more than just the Deer in the headlights, or the Salamanders that the Erenbrooks helped break through to the other side. It's ninety-nine percent composed of creatures that we can't even see, let alone understand the effects of pouring pavement all over.

And of course her vibrations are held back by this cage, but at least she can send a seismic test to break herself out of that one. No, once we stop repairing them, the roads will not last forever, that's easy to see from the sinkholes she's already been using to swallow our pride. But we can't stop repairing them until we get rid of cars, and we can't get rid of cars until we get rid of jobs, and we can't get rid of jobs until we get rid of rent, and we can't get rid of rent until we get rid of the banks, and we can't get rid of the banks because they own the government, so the government has to increase spending on interstate infrastructure, in order to ensure their permanence in this world.

So we either wait until we run out of oil, or until the collapsing economy and the uprising black waters become too much for the government to bail out all at once. Or, maybe we realize that the only thing meant to be truly permanent, is the death grip of debt that has enslaved our species since the invention of time, and that the only way to free ourselves from this prison of profit, is to burn the whole thing down. Or just the money.

*******

And the sweat lodge was hot enough to melt most of it away, though it took a few rounds of tweaking to get it properly steamproof. Randy and I tended the fire. There are as many ways to build a fire in this world as there are to pray, approximately eight billion. There may be certain protocols for putting together a peta wakan, but each firetender has their own flair to it. It was an honor to learn from Randy, a close brother who held me in his heart as he shared his personal philosophies of understanding.

I don't see the differences in my mentors as a device to separate their teachings, but as a way for me to find my own way of life, through the strength of their combined vibration. And this way isn't going to resonate with everyone, I learned that one from Randy, so as much as I want to share my journey and bring others to the inipi, it just might not have the same life changing effect on their being as it did mine. It's probably gonna do something though.

Uncle poured another lodge, but this time when it was over, Randy and I stayed in for a fifth round, a Buffalo round, as close brothers shared the deepest of heart vibrations. When we returned to the house, the vibe was joyful, commonplace after a good sweat, generally a little more on the chilled-out side of the spectrum, but it all made sense once we eyed the recyclable beer cans strewn about the table. There had been alcohol around the whole time, not all the time, but steady. No worries, it doesn't bother me to be near it, though some of our indian brothers can't say the same thing.

But there is no room for alcohol and the lodge to mix. That would be a big no-no. But nobody was drinking before the ceremony, so no official line was crossed, though it takes until the next day for the vibrations of the inipi to fully set in. Like at Sun Dance, where we stayed around for at least four days of purification, gotta let the prayer really sync into your own internal frequency. Alcohol dampens your vibration, your internal light, it clogs the conduit of your spirit. We don't bring it in the lodge, but we shouldn't really drink it afterwards either, especially not if you hold these ways sacred. But not everyone does, and that's ok, so Uncle and Randy and I went off alone and smoked the chanupa, to officially close out ceremony, as we sent our prayers out to Wakan Tanka.

*******

Uncle went on vacation the next day, so when Randy shot me a look and said, "You wanna go sweat?", I jumped at the chance to have a closed lodge with my brother. Men and women can go into the lodge together, we generally sit on opposite sides and it creates a nicely balanced energy, and prettier singing. But there's something special about a men's only lodge, as I know women to feel about their own, and especially with only the closest of brothers in there, as you're really able to open up to the stones in a much deeper way. Plus, with only the two of us, we didn't have to feel like we were hogging all the steam.

Before we headed to the lodge, I was out front singing that thunder song, at least until I saw a storm cloud rolling in. Randy told me to sing a different song and pray for the weather to hold out for a bit, at least until we got the fire started. We'd been learning some new songs together, Dean had even gotten us a drum, and it turns out that I was actually getting pretty good at singing, for a white guy. And Randy's knowledge of the language, was helping me begin to understand what I was sending out across the airwaves.

Randy was a bit younger than me and still learning these ways, as we all are, into eternity, but he's well on his way to becoming a strong spiritual leader for the community. He'd poured before, but only for those close to him and already familiar with these teachings, which includes me, and I was honored to be able to sweat with him as he continued his progress of prayer.

It turns out that starting a fire with wet wood in a drizzle, is not exactly the easiest, even if you can do it in the snow. We had a pretty good go at it, a struggle for quite a while as we fanned the flame, who wore us out and humbled us before the ceremony had even begun.

I was just starting to consider it a sign that perhaps we were not meant to sweat today, no time for coincidence to start happening now, but then I realized that it was quite the opposite. We were being put to the test. Our commitment to the prayer was being strengthened, as long as we could manage to endure the adversity. No one else was coming, it was just us, there was no real pressure to sweat and no one to let down but ourselves. We could have just given up. It was raining. Nobody would have thought twice, we just sweat yesterday, so what's the point?

But we'd made a commitment to pray. We'd built a sacred fire. This prayer was in our hearts. We'd put the grandfathers on the cradle with Tobacco, and invited the spirits of the four directions to hear our prayers. You have to want to pray, nobody else can make you, and the more you genuinely desire to connect to spirit, to need it, well, that's what opens up the gateway to the infinite beyond.

So we didn't stop. We gave that fire every drop of energy that we could muster. We were gonna sweat either way. We were tired, wet, and out of breath, and then we got it to catch. We were humbled and nearly defeated before we even crawled into the lodge, and the work we had to put into it, had us even more connected to the energy emanating from the glowing stones. We were dedicated to prayer, dedicated our lives to it in fact, and we'd proven just how strong our commitment to this path was, and how ready we were to enter the lodge as brothers.

*******

Prayer was strong from the get go, it was the first real hot one out here, and I was able to dig deep into my heart. I kinda remember being on my knees with my hands on the ground, but then I lost myself in prayer, and when I finally came out of it, something was off. Randy's voice was coming from the back of the lodge, not from the door, "Did you move?"

And as I spoke those words, they fell flat against a wall. I was the one at the back of the lodge, facing away from the grandfathers. I was praying backwards. Randy said that he couldn't tell what was going on, said it sounded like I was spinning around or something. I'd never prayed that hard in the lodge, felt good though, whatever it was.

We sang some more songs and I was thoroughly impressed at how my brother ran the ceremony, then we headed to the fire to get dressed as the rain rolled in. We'd prayed for a sunshine reprieve earlier and got it, and then in the lodge Randy prayed that we could see the moon tonight, who was waiting there to help us out of the lodge, for just a moment, and then the clouds crept over the rest of our evening.

Somewhat in a hurry, the heat of the inipi fading fast, and as I threw on my pants, I realized that I had done so backwards. That's weird, I coulda sworn I lined them up right, but no time to worry about it now, so I just left them and moved on. And then my shirt ended up backwards, after I thought I had checked its orientation more closely than a north carolina public restroom. So what was that about? Backwards in the lodge, and out, coincidence? I don't know, still don't, though that thunder song is a heyoka tune.

*******

Plus, who else but a heyoka would come up with frybread dessert pizzas? Chocolates and fruits and nuts and yum. Frybread recipes are a highly guarded tradition, mine was sworn to super secrecy, and now that I've made it even better, I probably wouldn't even share it with my teacher. So when Unci was abroad and had a comrade text for the recipe, it felt good to be able to pass on the tradition of silence. But then I felt bad for denying my indian grandma, the recipe that her people came up with to be able to eat rancid rations, so I kinda gave it to her. Just kinda though, I don't really use any real measurements or anything, so I'm pretty sure I still have a job.

Plenty of other work if not though, Randy and I put a metal roof on the woodshed while the rest of the crew worked in the yard, including pruning the Apple Tree. But I didn't know prunes came from Apples. Cutting back limbs to make the rest of it grow stronger, and the next time I saw it, it looked as embarrassed as a tightly shorn Poodle. I did not like it. I guess that's the 'right' way to do it, it'll grow back nice and full that way, but now my brother looks like an idiot. And it looks painful. But it makes him stronger, just like cutting the grass makes it grow stronger, even if I feel like it's just cutting off a relative's head.

But, doesn't cutting off a human's arm also make the rest of them grow stronger? Blind them and hearing gets stronger, amputate legs and arms grow stronger, cut off ears and art gets world renowned. So why is that not the same thing? Why is mutilating a human to make the rest of them grow stronger, any more absurd than doing so to a tree?

Is it making them more fit to survive in this world? Or is it just making them more profitable to exploit for our own purposes? Is it 'stronger' to produce more fruit, when it means having to support the overweight limbs from collapsing? And are the fruit as vitamin rich as they would have been, considering that the exact same amount of nutrients are getting sucked out of the ground? It sure sounds like we're deciding nature's fate based on what benefits us the most, or at least what benefits the 'owner' of this lifeform, who puts manmade quantity over God given quality, which seems to have been the story ever since we ate off of that very first tree in the mythical garden.

I'd hate to see what some meddling species would do as they abducted our life cycle, and determined what made us better suited for their purposes. I'd hope they'd at least ask us. And maybe we'd be cool with them cutting off our favorite limb if it raised our sperm count, certainly seems a similar method of proliferating a species, but, luckily no one's worried about our ability to reproduce. And I'm not saying that I know what's best, maybe that actually is the healthiest thing for the tree, but I'm gonna need to hear the tree say it.

*******

The indigenous communities of this planet, were not simple-minded gatherers who stumbled upon berry patches to survive. They tended the wild around them. They spread sacred seeds, caretook the Corn and her friends, and may have even pruned the trees. But they were also connected to the plants and the land in a big way. They were given original instructions through their connection with Unci Maka, and then the plants told them what they needed in order to thrive. They prayed with the seeds, they prayed with the water, they prayed with the Sun, they prayed with the Earth, they sang prayer songs as their vibrating hands put the essence of life into the living soil, they performed dances for the rain, and the art of their prayers was as much a part of the interwoven web of life, as any tropical bird's song and dance routine on the telly.

Prayer was love, and love was life, and life was all around them. They didn't pray to the trees, they spoke to them, they were all related. They were tuned-in to the nature channel, and every bite of nature brought them that much closer to univision. Certainly some had stronger connection than others, possibly defined by the DNA of the stars, and maybe a love top by the Wakinyan. The medicine people were in direct connection with Earth's vibration, and acted as intermediaries between the tribe and every other vibrating particle of Wakan Tanka.

If you're not with me, then I sound like a looney bird dancing in the rain, but that's only because of the long history of your food's extended shelf life. The plow that tore through the Earth with brute force, dislodged communication with the precious microbiology that took millennia to compile, and was far removed from any energetic exchange with a budtender. The efficient rows of solitude made sense to the mechanized harvester, but forced the Corn to leave the Squash and Beans in the dustbowl. The fences that enslaved as we broke their spirit, the interfering of bloodlines as we domesticated our products, the chemicals that boosted the growth of sales, the processing practices of a machine-based diet, and now the genetic tampering with the spiraling code of creation that connects them to the universe. Their DNA is their original evolutionary instruction of how to live in a good way, as is ours, and some cornfed Monkey brain decided to go and mess that up too.

And if somehow you're still reading and don't believe in evolution, and haven't burned alive for consuming this blasphemy yet, then partake on this tidbit of pontification - God created us and the plants and the animals, including the tiniest microscopic genetic coding in every cell of life, and in order for you to believe what you believe about the world, you have to denounce all of the satanistic scientists who make up stuff like evolution and aliens and abortion pills, so the obvious question is - Why on God's green Earth are you not calling blasphemy on the evil scientists who are tampering with God's will, and instead you're eating this ungodly food of sin? DNA is the code of creation, it is God inside of every drop of life, so who in their right mind would eat something genetically modified in a lab?

Ok, well at least we've gotten rid of those prudes, now back to our regularly scheduled program about pagan dirt worshipers who listen to the voices in their heads.

The energy flows of our planet are real. You can't even come up with a good argument against the simple ones, like light and sound. Invisible frequencies of communication are commonplace to any modern five year old, and when I was five, you could feel the frequency of an old school tv as you walked into the room. Some people are more receptive than others. Some people are psychic. Some people are fake. Others can sense emotions as colors, I know some.

Plants are psychic, not a myth, scientific tests have proven it over and over. They don't prove intelligence, just perception to brainwaves and thought patterns, and their instinctual behaviors are altered accordingly. Think of hurting them, and their own frequencies go dormant. Think of love songs, they grow big and strong without cutting their limbs off. I've personally spoken to Stinging Nettles, and was spared a single poke.

Indigenous people around the globe have a beyond scientific understanding of plant medicines, one that could never be accumulated through trial and error of thousands of species, for thousands of uses, that's just simple math. Natives of the world were in communication with plants. They were all interlocking pieces of the same puzzle. Those indigenous to Unci Maka are a living breathing piece of her celestial body - so where the hell are you from?

*******

I've recently picked up that some medicine plants are shaped like the bodily organ that they treat, like an over-the-counter Walnut and it's direct connection to brain function, or the self-titled Kidney Bean and its kidney healing properties, or our most favorite heart-shaped Sorrel leaves and their circulatory revitalization and blood-pressure regulation. But it makes me wonder if they sound like their patients too, "Hey man, you got any funyuns?" JK, but there was enough of that particular medicine going around to believe in talking Dogs too.

There was a couple of people who lived in the commune who were not water protectors, yet, and they worked at a local dispensary. They'd come home with the expired product, once again illegal to sell, so can you guys throw these out for us? No prob, except that each preroll came in its own individual plastic tube. Non reusable. Non recyclable. Thousands of tubes at thousands of dispensaries, who were mandated by their green-conscious state government, to sleeve this natural medicine in a sheath of pollution.

Well, I guess that all medicines come from the pharmacy in plastic bottles, so it must be a necessary thing. A thing that the plastic lobbyists made sure of. Plastic lobbyists, ha, unless you mean those two small businesses who own the recipe, and first marketed it through Disneyland's 1957 "Monsanto House of the Future."

Or maybe you're talking about the DuPont chemical giant, but it seems that they made way more green back when it was still illegal. And way back before pot was a "weed rooted in hell", it was voted more popular than rigged elections, it turns out that it's the cash crop being harvested on the back of your ten spot, and Henry Ford once even built an entire car out of hemp.

The automobile was shaping up to be a far more profitable addiction than marijuana could ever be, which explains why DuPont decided to add General Motors to its inventory. Cars, of course, require metals and fabrics and rubbers and cordage and paint and all that good stuff, unless you just fabricate every single one of those pieces out of the renewable license of hemp.

Sounds like a great business plan, unless your business is in toxic chemical compounds, and especially once you invent a revolutionary new petroleum product with a futuristic name like nylon. No chemical compounding interest to conflict here though, we'll let the free market decide the direction of our highways, and if the people want a green machine, then I'm sure that someone will roll one off the factory floor soon enough.

That business model would suck for GM, which would suck for DuPont, which would suck for their investors at Mellon Bank, but luckily Andrew Mellon was a pretty savvy entrepreneur. He had already founded Gulf Oil, and Union Steel, and Alcoa Aluminum, who of course stood to gain from the motors of the general, but now he was far too busy to meddle in metals anymore, with his newly appointed position of Secretary of the Treasury.

Good news though, his family would be happy to help, so he got his nephew-in-law a job as the head of the Prohibition Department. The new chief of the goodtime police held no ill will towards cannabis, his only job was to stifle the growth of an alcohol fueled future, at least until that floorboard fell through, and now all of a sudden he was gonna be out of a job as his department became obsolete. Well, we already know how america feels about marketing jobs, so of course we can cling on to an outdated version of reality, as we simultaneously secure the future of energy dependence. Pot's now a poison, DuPont's now the designer, and all GM vehicles now require the patented tetra-ethel leaded fuel owned by our chemical superstore, instead of the originally designed diesel model that used seed oils, like hemp.

*******

So we could be making these little weed tubes out of hemp itself, which sounds way more hipster anyway, but for some reason, the legalization of industrial hemp is not progressing nearly as fast as the progressive states are burning down. At least when I used to buy weed, there was only a sandwich bag of time to waste, but that was also a shame. Refilling a jar is a much better solution for pollution. Never gonna work with the representation of taxation, but once it's growing on trees again, just fill 'er up.

And we'll assume that jars are ok to use, now that they're already manufactured at least, glass is theoretically a naturally occurring substance, occasionally. But I just learned that the mason-led jar craze completely depleted the hoosier slide of indiana, a giant sand dune ecosystem that I'm sure was sacred to some indian or another, but it was also fun to slide down the side of. Capitalism must be stopped.

But we're not selling weed, in fact, it's the one substance that could never be used as currency out here, everybody's already got plenty. You can buy it on every corner, taxed and packaged of course, but you can also grow your own. It grows just fine outside, I think that's where it started even, but many grow it indoors nowadays, at least until it reaches adulthood. Far more work, and expense, fancy lights and electric, gotta regulate temperature and humidity, and if they're just not performing up to par, gotta scrap 'em and start over.

Just sounds like another prison to me. I prefer my spiritual medicine to receive its energetic instructions from the actual Sun, and the actual rain, and the actual Earth, but I'm just some dirty hippie, what do I know about smoking pot?

I do know that those plants are my sisters, because growers kill the male plants that don't produce buds as they fertilize the females, who then don't have time to get you as high. So if we just let the natural path of this natural plant take root, we're not gonna get as super glued as the plastic package promises, but that's probably for the better, and it'll be growing everywhere, like a weed. People are already spreading the sacred seeds, and I'll be replacing fences with them soon enough, so it'll be able to cross your path when it's meant to.

You could just smoke it when you see it, though it burns better once it's cured a bit, so just fill up your little jar and hit the road. If you were one of those still stuck in scarcity mode, which is doubtful seeing as how those folks aren't really gonna last that long, then your instinct would be to take it all, who knows when you'll see it again, but then no one else would get any. You can't live in excess anymore. That's so last age of man.

And that goes with any of the plants - medicine or food - just take what you need, there will be more down the road, I promise. Especially when we all spread our favorite seeds along our journey. The more people who live this way, the more abundant everything will become. And the more room you have in empty jars, the more power of manifestation you'll have at your fingertips. This is not some super future made-up way of life, I'm already living it.

I gave away a big bag of herb the day after it crossed my path, and now it's literally around every corner. I don't think twice about giving away my last smoke, or bus station cliff bar, or whatever I got, because I know I'll find a caramel cube or a natural band-aid popping up just when I need it. If I'd have pulled the whole Mullein plant, I'd have had too much and nobody else would have had any, but I just took what I needed in the moment, and I bet it's still growing there for me to find next year. I have to be observant of where I am, I have to be living in the now, mindful, but I should be doing that anyway so that I don't get bitten by happenstance. The now is where the magic happens, not being worried about tomorrow. So smoke 'em if ya got 'em, or just give 'em away. There's gonna be plenty down the road, and hey, can I bum a smoke, I'm fresh out.

*******

And it doesn't hurt to not be picky, after Standing Rock I can smoke even the bottom of the barrel, like, just a piece of the barrel. And as luck would have it, another protector who just moved in, brought an authentic piece of water protector memorabilia. A one pound bag of the bargain Tobacco that we'd been smoking on out at camp, perfectly aged, now that's a quality souvenir.

I felt bad for our water protectors in training, always having to listen to our tales of heroic survival, and blizzard blunders, I bet it gets old to hear our endless war stories, but I think the frybread made it all worth it. They lived up the hill in a school bus with four big Dogs, it was a great spot and they'd done tons of work to make it comfortable, including a great big pallet fence around the backyard for the pups. We don't have to talk too much about the fence, you get it, and the only time it was 'needed', was when they went to work and couldn't be responsible for their pets offending someone. The Dogs were really well behaved, plus they broke down the fence more often than not anyway, but if some other Dog with less manners made the wrong move, these guys were big enough to eat a little one.

I get it, they were extending common courtesy to others by being responsible pet 'owners', so what possible alternative can I suggest? Well, I know I'm not down with the fence, so I guess the only other option is to let the Dogs figure it out. It's what they'd do if we all mysteriously disappeared. That would mean that some Dogs get hurt, especially yappy little bullies who can't mind their own business, but I doubt they'll be much for surviving anyway. Guess that goes for humans too though.

I don't have the whole Dog thing completely figured out, nor do I travel with a Dog to gain personal insight, but I certainly don't believe in owning another living being. I know that they are incredible creatures, and incredibly smart, as well as loving companions, so I most certainly believe in true symbiosis with this one.

And I've had the good fortune to travel with those that have it more figured out than I. They don't 'own' a Dog, they 'travel' with one. They are not master of a pet, or even mom or dad, they are brother or sister, or simply friend. They don't decide the pup's path, though in order to live within the limitations of colonization, they have taught their friend the customary rules that they will be expected to follow, in order to have safe travels. They do not use food to play God to a creature without thumbs, but they do feel responsible to make food for their friend, while they are living in the civilization built by and for their own species. And they would expect their friend to do the same for them, if they happen upon a colony of Dogs who've oppressed all the people.

In the future world that's part of the tomorrow that I'm not thinking about, we'll walk side by side down the fence line. No dumb social rules of subservience. They can catch Rabbits and I'll cook them. I'll carry enough water for us both. Or we can just do our own thing, then meet back up and tell jokes as we blaze a fire to keep us both warm and happy, as best friends on the road. Plus, he speaks Dog and I speak human, so now we should have safe passage into either colony we encounter, though, I guess I already promised we'd be speaking the same language soon enough.

And even now, which I heard somewhere is all that matters, I know plenty of people who have an unspoken connection with the Sunka Oyate. Most Dog companions have that bond, they can tell what the other needs from a simple change in tone, and often sense what they're thinking without a single sound. So if this isn't proof positive that an interspecies vibrational connection is reality, then I'll just have to translate a bit for you, these pallet fenced Dogs were yelling, "Let me outta here."

*******

But home sweet home was pretty sweet, and while the fence is on my bad list, it was neither permanent nor painted, and although the bus didn't run, it was still on the approved nomadicism spreadsheet. Plus, the Dogs were almost big enough to pull it. So, cool, hilltop chateau is temporary enough that I'll let it stick around, especially with its salvaged title of pallet construction, at least until they told me that we had to cut some trees down. We gotta what? Why? Oh brother.

And my two-legged brothers here aren't trigger happy lumberjacks, they would rather have trees than timbers, at least now that the shower's built. They weren't cutting down these five Poplars for material or site, nor for sport logging at the highland games, the trees were starting to naturally fall over as a residual side effect of the surrounding clearcut. They'd lived their whole life in the same spot, I hear that's not uncommon in the tree nation, but they'd grown up sheltered from the elements, as miles of forest protected them from the wind. And now that the devastation of apocalyptic proportions was upon them, they were the unprepared teenage forest, that simply didn't have a strong enough connection to survive the carnage unfolding all around.

So, are we cutting them to make them stronger? To preemptively take them out of their misery? Ah, I see, we don't want them to fall on the house, I mean the bus. Wait, can't we just move the bus? Isn't that what it's all about? But we've put in so much hard work on the patio, and the pallet fence would be destroyed, oh no, and the only option seems to be even more work, as we slaughter more victims of the neighboring clearcut.

I also wouldn't want to sleep under those leaning trees during a windstorm, nor my canine companions, but I would just roll the bus downhill, instead of the burden. It's a freaking mobile home, there's an open yard on the other side, but even I have to admit that it's not nearly as sweet of a location. Nope, no one else saw another possibility other than removing the threat of innocence, it's just too much work to not chainsaw and tractor pull all day. And these were tree hugging hippies, but not if it meant letting go of the permanent lot for their temporary home. Oh, and some of them might hit the house too, no way, now they're definitely outta here.

And I'm only venting, there's no judgements here at all, I love all these folks dearly, and the real wrongdoer here was captain clearcut. And had the Poplars stayed as we took the same day's work and moved the bus instead, this entire side of the compound would become no man's land and a danger zone for who knows how long, possibly years of worry, as the trees lived long lives of enduring the changing winds of Earthly energy flows. And then if trees on the other side did the same, all of a sudden we're evicted without a place to go, though I guess no trees can fall on us next door.

I didn't put up a fight, it's not my place to impose my ways on another, I only push my worldviews onto those dumb enough to read this far, and even then it's up to you to take what resonates and build your own way of life. I was right there to help, and as the smallest jumpiest member of the crew, I was right up in it, though I cringed and sang a prayer song during each beheading.

Before it all began, I quietly walked unseen to the first tree on the execution docket, knelt down, and pulled out my pouch of vintage Tobacco. I offered some to the tree and to Unci Maka, as well as some words of remorse and explanation, and a prayer that they would get through this without pain, as they took from me any energetic healing that they could. There was a clear exchange of heart vibrations. We ended up cutting the other trees out of the way first, and then at the end of the day, it was decided that the tree I had prayed at, was not in the path of destruction after all, and therefore received a pardon for its life. Today is a good day to live. I love you trees.
Plants are a most wondrous creation. They nourish the essence of our being, as they bring life to the light within. They connect us to the universe, through the marriage of Sun and Earth.

Plants are medicine for the soul. They heal the vibration of the heart, as they repair discord among the senses. They contain the harmonious instructions of returning balance to the symphony.

Plants are aligned with the cycles of life. They awaken to the first vibration of light, and retire as the darkness settles in. They spiral closer to perfection with every waking breath.

Plants hold the memories of a time undivided, an era of oneness before kingdoms were separated. They are the keys to unlocking the reunion of species, as we grow towards the unification of life.

The plants of the world play a vital role in the path of our own bloodline, through their knowledge, we will sprout the wisdom of living in a good way. The relationships to be built are not metaphorical, we must offer the energy of our love in order to build a vibrational bond between us. Your connection to the energetic interplay of Sun and Earth, is directly related to the sacred songs of the green nation, and the closer we eat to nature, the closer we become to God.

*******

Speaking of plants, it was getting awfully green in the rainforest, so it was obviously time to go trekking through a blizzard on a search for more old time sakes. February here was just too moderate and lush, no adventure of survival, so we were taking this show on the road, and heading to Standing Rock for a vacation. Ok, so this was no vacation, but it's still gonna be fun to revisit the site of our awakening, on the anniversary of our eviction.

One of our brothers had a vision of a prayer walk, so he manifested it into reality. We were caravanning out to join him in solidarity, it's sort of a thing we do, plus we heard there'd be real frybread. Should be a bit colder than here, and it just so happens that I have the perfect outfit for the occasion, although we've had none of the air conditioning that built our tolerance to the chill of last winter.

We'd been living in it for months, night and day, our bodies had adapted, evolved, our blood was physically thicker, which enabled us to function at lower operating temperatures, like forty below, but now we're just jumping right in from the comfort of the permathaw. It's like when you live in a hundred degree summer, but you don't subject your body to the shock of artificial air conditioning, you instead become acclimated to your surroundings, and the shade of your tipi is actually quite refreshing. Humans can survive through a wide range of climates, we are highly resilient when we step outside of our comfort zone, and it is only through the colonized dependence on convenience that we've evolved into such pathetic pantywaists. But at least this time we know what we're getting ourselves into, although that kinda made it worse. It was gonna be cold, really cold, and we were going to be walking forty miles in it, better be some real good frybread is all I can say.

A couple of us were staying behind, and a couple of us weren't coming back, so our extended departure included plenty of hugs and things. As for me? How'm I supposed to know? That's way too far to plan ahead, so I took all of my stuff and prepared to move on to the next life. Anything could happen from this point, as it can from any point when you're present in the now, but especially as even more water protectors were coming together, plus I've been itching to get into some action.

Randy was more certain of his plan, he wasn't coming back. He was gonna stay in the dakotas, he'd been planning on going back soon anyway, so this journey manifested itself at the perfect time, what a coincidence. As he packed his sacred belongings, he gifted me one of the feathers that he kept wrapped in a red prayer cloth. A short Hawk feather, the perfect size for a hat adornment. And that was his intent, as he'd seen that my Sun Dance feathers had fallen out over the last week, but I'd hardly noticed.

I was really digging them being there, but I understand that the wiyaka is on its own journey through this world, just like me. We traveled together for a while, a good ride, but it was time for it to move on along its path. There is a spiritual energy in this sacred feather, as there was in the sacred bird who sent it off into the world, and as there is in any gift of life from Unci Maka. We pray with Tobacco before we begin to beat a drum made of an animal's hide, we honor its sacrifice and know that its spirit travels with this instrument of prayer. And the tree nation that gave us the wood to build it, we honor them in a good way, because to pray any other way, just doesn't make very much sense.

So are you sure that you want me to put this in my hat? I'm not easy on hats by any means, it's gonna get ruffled a bit, and eventually it's gonna travel onward. But I guess if I'm gonna be adventuring around with only my hat and a cup, I might as well be doing it in style, and a little sacred energy probably wouldn't hurt.

We got sent along our way with a few other gifts for the road, and for the snow, and a couple extra-long toksa's to entice a round trip out of my unknown trajectory. My in-the-moment itinerary gives me the ultimate confidence of travel insurance, but it can be a little tough for those who never know when I'll depart, though these particular companions know that I'll see them soon no matter what. Especially if the truck breaks down before we get out of the state.

Well, not broken down exactly, but the heat quit working, as we're heading into a north dakota february, might as well be broken down. Could always suit up I guess, but I'd rather fix it while we're still above freezing, and luckily, we had the west coast auto maintenance and water protection agency on board. Autozone, part's not in stock, $200 across town, did you check the fuse, I'll check again anyway, and hot diggity Dog we're back on the road.

Stopped the caravan at the columbia river for a water healing ceremony, offered Tobacco and prayers to the life essence of Unci Maka, and shared heart vibrations with our precious planet. Please pray for your water, at least tell it that you love it. I don't take a sip without saying, "I love you water, mni wiconi." It scientifically raises the water's frequency, heals its damaged molecules, and in turn, does the same for you. From the tap or bottle or well or creek, and especially if you know the water to not be the cleanest, please, your life depends on it.

*******

Now back to it, and then stopped again, we heard a clinking and pulled over to find broken lugs, can't fix it ourselves on the snowy road, but 'luckily' we were on an exit ramp with a tire shop in sight. Before we left, I prayed with some Tobacco for safe travels, unencumbered by harm or irreparable damages, or those pesky law enforcers, I prayed to keep us traveling in prayer and protected by the light. So what seems to be the problem officer, I thought we prayed so that this kinda thing wouldn't slow us down. Well, there was ninety miles of frozen mountain pass ahead, and not much going on behind us, could have taken the setback as a bad sign for the road ahead, but we knew that we'd just broken down at the absolute safest location possible, for a reason. And obviously the reason was to break out the crockpot-roasted beef sandwiches I'd cheffed up before we left. Aho.

And next thing we know, we're back in the dakotas. South dakota. Thought me might have time to roll through Camp Justice, woulda been a fun surprise visit, but it was late and we had to get to Randy's house for frybread and stew. He wasn't sure if he'd be traveling north with us, but we'd see him tomorrow either way, for now though, we were off to visit a long lost friend.

JK, we stayed with Smokey. This guy. He'd left the west a few weeks earlier and was already starting to miss me. There was an actual reunion too though, a protector that we'll call Bob, and he was jumping in with the road crew.

I knew Randy wasn't gonna come, he had stuff to do, so I needed to give him something from my heart, but I don't have very much left except for that. I had an extra notebook though, something that I hold sacred as I protect it from the elements and spill the contents of my heart across the page. So I wrote him a heartfelt letter in the front of it, and adorned the cover with some inside jokes and stick figure artistry.

I was right about his departure from the exit plan, in the morning we traded vibrations as yet another blizzard was rolling in, so we rolled out, and I left my brother to be dearly missed. I have no phone, so there's no keeping in touch, maybe an occasional message through the clouds, but once I'm gone, I'm gone. We promised to keep working on songs, to keep the prayer strong, and that is a promise I will keep until we meet again. But I was gonna do all that stuff anyway.

And finally, we were actually headed back to camp, with a blizzard on our tails. Who signs up for this kinda stuff, twice? The car issues had delayed us a bit, so when we rolled up to the prayer walk, it was underway, and they had already made it from the front of Rosebud camp to the infamous backwater bridge. (Uncannily similar sounding to the 'blackwater bridge", hmm...)

Still looked as snowy as I remembered, but way less guns and humvees and blinding lights and teargas and stuff. Ah, memories. But this was as far as they were even walking today, it was just the opening ceremony, so Bob and I hopped out to walk the two flags back to the rally point. He carried an AIM flag, the colors of the four directions with a two-finger peace sign that also looked like a feathered indian head, and I carried the stars and stripes. What? Proud to be an american? Are you kidd..., oh, nevermind, it's upside-down.

*******

Our country is in distress. We have been taken over by tyranny. It is our duty as americans, to stand up to those who are holding our government hostage. An upside-down flag is not a sign of disrespect to your country, continuing to allow malicious forces to exploit it, is. A patriot is not someone who supports their leadership regardless of rights and wrongs, they are someone who stands for the people of the nation and the promise of freedom.

We are not free. We never were. We are being farmed in the federal prison of the united states. Our incarceration fuels the profits of corporations, who only further enslave us, as we become increasingly dependent upon them for the fundamental elements of life. If we do not act soon, their chokehold on the government will expand to all of humanity, and they will have successfully conquered the entire world.

King of the world, it sounds like a joke, as does the New World Order, who supposedly seeks to control the planet's population through a global government and worldwide currency. The only catch to this obviously silly story, is that a long list of credible witnesses have openly spoken about this organization, like, most of our presidents. The loose lips end there though, secrecy is of utmost importance for the most privatized meeting in the world, the Bilderberg Group. There are no minutes, or press, or wives, or even an acknowledgement that anything smells fishy, but the elite who gather to discuss the new policies with which to order the world, are obviously up to something.

It was founded by the unscrupulous David Rockefeller, as was it's predecessor, the Trilateral Commission, but the ridiculous roster of attendees starts to paint a picture of what they could possibly be conspiring about. International bankers, corporate heavyweights, media giants, and political powerhouses. Kissinger, Rumsfeld, Murdoch, our Federal Reserve buddies Greenspan and Bernanke, so many more leaders of the free market, and even our favorite of them all, Obama. No surprise there, even if the group does seem to serve the interests of a supremely white house, it was obvious that Obama was bought and paid for, at least once he appointed a dozen members of the Trilateral Commission to his administration.

They're planning the future that I'm praying to prevent, a centralized control system that will disempower humanity from ever escaping the cages of oppression. They use scare tactics to relieve us of human rights, currency to convince us that they own our species, and they are only a few steps away from their attempted takeover of the entire planet. Ok, so now I definitely sound nuts, but then I guess so did David Rockefeller when he said, "We are on the verge of a global transformation. All we need is the right major crisis and the nations will accept a New World Order."

But we're not defeated yet. It is not too late to change the course of human history. In fact, it is only now that we've become empowered enough to make a difference. Through the technology of our global interconnection, we are now capable of rising up, in a unified stand, against the elite who have kept us separated for so long. The walls they've built between us are crumbling, we are waking up to the realization that we are one people, and as we come together to make a stand, they will have nowhere to go but down.

It is time. We are ready. We are strong. Eight billion strong. They cannot stop us once we've combined our vibrations, and they know it, so they are desperately scrambling to disconnect us from one another. They've been officially waging war with the world, bombing innocents to breed hatred, and as their scare tactics crumble at the shaking hands of the disarmed, they simply choose another target and reroute the destruction.

They are terrified of us, of unity, of truth, of prayer, because they know that they are no match for the abundant power of love. Their mechanisms of fear only work on a population who have forgotten who they are, who have forgotten how to trust, who have forgotten how to love, who have forgotten that they are the exact same essence of life as every other being of light on this planet. We are healing the fractures between us, we are rebuilding harmony between nations, we are reuniting the species of mankind. And only then, will we have the capacity to develop a worldwide union of technological convenience and symbiotic partnerships with the rest of life on Earth.

*******

So let's get to it then. Where do we start? Well, we have to assemble for freedom. We have to spread the word and gather the troops. So for starters, you could hang an upside-down flag in your yard. You could show your personal disgust at the criminal enterprise that we have allowed to control our country. Those that run over all others in their quest for global domination, and not voicing your discontent, only enables them further. We no longer have time to sit back and live a quiet life as we ignore the carnage around us. The walls are closing in quickly, and once they are upon us, it will be too late to stop them. Millions of americans are ready for a change, you are not alone, but if everyone continues to hide from reality without putting up a fight, then we've just handed them the world without a fight.

We must resist. It is the only option for survival. Millions are ready, they are waiting for the call to action, they are stuck in a system that they know is tearing them apart, but they see no other way out until it is time to rise up. It is time. We must assemble the patriots and planetarians. We must alert the corners of the world that it is time to unite. We needn't rely on horseback warnings of reverence, we can reach the masses with a single click. #overthrowtheman

Flip a flag in your yard, alert your neighbors that something is wrong. Post a picture for your virtual friends to see. Many will be upset, they will not understand, they are fully invested in the legitimacy of the idiocracy. But a conversation will be started, one that may cause them to think about what they've blindly believed their entire life. If their own middle-class white neighbor feels this strongly, then maybe there's something to it.

And those that are already aware, they will follow suit with their own flag, you will be shocked by the number of people ready to do something, they just don't know what to do. The internet community will catch on like wildfire, it will become the latest fadnomenon, as even celebrities begin posting selfies with the upturned stars. Once people see that their voice counts for more than choosing between two evils in a rigged election, they will eagerly jump on board.

The movement will spread beyond neighborhoods, we will flip flags within the city limits. Even those the most connected to disconnection, will be forced to evaluate their role in the system. Twenty points for any flag flipped at wells fargo. Or government buildings. Don't get shot though.

The government will not like this. They will frame this as an act of terror and try to corral the sheep with fear, because they will be terrified of the momentum heading right for them. They will try to convince viewers at home that hostiles are taking over the country, but we know that they already have. They will try to convince us that this movement is about something other than the peaceful resistance of government tyranny, but we will be expecting their lies, and we will not fall for their deceit any longer. They will attempt to infiltrate this movement, I can guarantee that one. They will pose their own operatives as spokesmen for the campaign, as they try to derail the snowball headed straight for washington. Do not back down.

Or is this just some half baked foolishness that won't do anything but increase american flag sales? So what if flags are flipped, what's that gonna stop? Could this flag wave of millions of american citizens in protest of their corrupt government, possibly achieve results? And what results are we even looking for? A new election? That's only gonna bring more of the same. We have to completely eradicate the power structure that allows the profits of the few, to decide the policies of the many. And it doesn't take that many. It only takes 3.5 percent of the population to rise up in order to topple corruption. In south korea they successfully did it with candles, upturned flags should be even more powerful, especially once we flood the streets with them. How many of us can a couple of teargas grenades possibly stop? And just imagine if we started burning money too.

*******

But what happens when we win? When those who we're coming after, tuck their tails and run away like the cowards that they are? We can cheer and celebrate, but what comes next? Chaos and disorder? Another military regime steps in? We just think happy thoughts and start flying around? Who's gonna be in charge? How can we fix the world? Isn't it just better to stay in the comfort of this prison, than to step outside into the unknown? Uh, no.

Our primary objective must be repairing and preparing. Change is coming to the planet, it is too late to stop it, but it is not too late to drastically reduce the devastation that will occur if we just mindlessly ignore the rising up that is happening all around us. With money and corporations no longer in charge of science, our smartest minds will now be free to honestly approach real world solutions to decrease our footprint, not increase sales. We will assemble think tanks to tackle the logistics of providing fundamentals to the populous, we'll even include water, and the populous will come together to begin the deconstruction of civilization.

We can still act civilized, and we can even live in houses and stuff, but we have to clean up our mess before it is washed into the water supply. We can't have oceanfront oil refineries, or nine hundred miles of sludge melting into the arctic, or the nation's biggest cities directly in the flood plains of tomorrow. Demolishing the skyscrapers seems a stretch, plus that'll be the only place to run for the billions who insist on taking the submarineway to work, but we need to at least empty the contaminants of our nation, before they flush our future down the drain.

So where are we gonna move the metropolitan masses to? You don't seriously suggest tipis in the woods, do you? There certainly is something magical about the vibrant culture that arises out of the diverse community of babylon, so let's assume that our roll of smarties can conceive of a blueprint that would allow urban nightlife to thrive, within the notation of the musical tapestry that we are all a part of. It's not as impossible as it seems. They'd be way smaller of course, there wouldn't be any industrial or financial districts, and there wouldn't be miles of road ragers commuting to soul-sucking jobs. So everyone in the city would actually want to be there, which means they might treat it with more respect than a back alley dumpster.

The food is of course the biggest hurdle to make it all happen, it's really what makes or breaks any city's allure, and it will be the primary focus of every community across the globe. We have to start eating local. There is no other option. So our new urban landscape will have to be designed to merge home and garden. And we can't simply grow simple-minded food indoors. The complexity of life is powered by the Sun, through the plants that we eat. It is imperative that we consume the purest vibrations possible. Energy straight from the source. Within these spiraling codes of creation are the original instructions of the universe.

*******

Alright, hold on a second, I thought we were ordering the new world, and next thing I know, you're dropping EMPs on me. Did you say that the Sun's vibrations are somehow these mysterious "original instructions?" But I thought they were some kind of ancient knowledge handed down from the ancestors? What do some indian cavemen and the Sun have to do with each other? And then you said that the stones for your silly sauna thing were ancestors, the grandfathers, and the mountains too, but isn't that also what this Tunkasila character is, some magic grandfather in the sky for you guys to hoot and holler at? Who in the world are these ancestors?

Well, they're those that came before us. Just like your ancestors. Our parents and grandparents and great grandparents and great great grandparents and what's so great about those old senile fools? Well, you may only have known them as they were slipping into an alternate dementia, spouting off about things that don't make sense in this current rendition of a perfect sense-making modern society, but I guarantee they hold a wealth of knowledge, if you just take the time to actually listen.

They remember another era, living the old ways, a time when you had no choice but to be connected to the land around you, your survival depended on it. And just imagine the connection of their ancestors, and of their ancestors, and then theirs, and we could trace the branches of this family tree all the way until they reach the sky.

If we could go all the way back to the very first man, well, wouldn't he have been the most evolved specimen of our species? He'd have had to dilute his God-given perfection when he mated with an erectus female, wouldn't he? Oh yeah, I forgot about that conniving hoochie Eve, well, in that case, I guess Adam was just the least inbred specimen of the bunch.

Whatever's clever, but evolution is obviously a thing, so even number one man had ancestors; Erectus, Habilis, Robustus, Monkey, Lemur, Mouse and Protozoa, and back to the single cells of life that somehow held the genetic information, to spawn the entirety of life on Earth. That's one heck of a seed right there. And we are all related. Distant cousins no doubt, and that single cell is separated by many great ancestors, but we very clearly resemble each other. Our DNA does at least. It's been updated a few times along the way, mutated, radiated, and every drop of energy that powered it's evolutionary path to us, came straight from the Sun.

Whatever the mechanism of our spiraling genetic code becoming updated, in the most incredibly diverse and miraculous manners of symbiosis, it's undeniable that there must be some source of steady influence, or at least regular intervals of radiation, and I can really only think of one giant radiation ball that our planetary cycles routinely revolve around, as it pours spirals of energy directly into every single cell of life. The Sun of God.

So yeah, maybe the Sun is the catalyst that literally fuels evolution, big deal, everybody knows that's just a random coincidence anyway. It's not like he has any clue what's going on down here on Earth. We can't even figure it out, and we're the smartest species ever. How could a massive body of energy outside of our comprehension, ever comprehend what is best for 'our' planet? Now, he's definitely got more experience, like, since the beginning. Way before life began, but he was still up there pouring vibrations into our planet, our mother, the incubator that would nurture the entirety of Earthly existence, the egg of life. And I guess, technically, he pretty much created the planet to begin with.

*******

In the beginning, there was darkness, and then there was light, as the fundamental vibrations that humans labeled hydrogen and helium, ignited into nuclear fusion, and the gravity of his personality began to pull together a harem of planets. Kinda funny how 'Adam' and 'atom' sound so much alike, and how the first most basic atom is hydrogen, and that the second element of creation has an additional rib, I mean electron, and the union of the two Eve-olved the existence of everything we've ever known. Including our planet, who was created out of the dust of the Earth, which was still kinda just the same dust of the Sun, and as the Sun's energy entered the orb of the Earth, it also created everything that we've ever known.

The sacred union of the Sun and Earth went through countless cycles of fire and brimstone, molten lava that cooled to become rocks, the very first solid members of our Earthly community. The Sun kept sending its juice, and the Earth kept evolving. More rocks, and mountains, and water came from somewhere, maybe space, but that's just more hydrogen plus an oxygen vibratamin boost. Then the Sun built us an atmospheric nursery, warmed up the egg, and our mother gave birth to the ancestors of man, as she brought new life out of this world.

The Protozoa are our ancestors, the mountains are our ancestors, the rocks are our ancestors, the Earth is our mother, and the Sun is our father. This is not some poetic metaphor attempting to unite our understanding of the universe with the doctrines of religion and evolution, it doesn't even rhyme. No, this is the signal flow of connection between the now and a higher dimension. And Tunkasila? Well, I guess he must be the Sun's dad.

I get that this must be a lot to wrap your highly evolved head around right now, so we can move on for a bit, but the real takeaway for today's lesson is simple - The Sun and the Earth are entangled in a symbiotic dance of energy exchange, the mechanics of which are the driving force of our evolving DNA. Their vibrations combine to create the spiral of life at the heart of existence, most directly with the plants, who are capable of making this conversion internally. We then consume the plants, who contain the most up-to-date evolutionary information, and our own genetic preparedness for survival evolves. It happens in small subtle steps, but you are what you eat, on a deep vibrational level. So why would anyone under the Sun, eat the fake foods that our civilization crams down our throat? Please, don't, the future of the planet depends on it.

*******

And by this time, we'd made it back to the rally point, which was right across the street from Rosebud, so of course we drove over there to chief one. We even got to see a police suv up on the hill, protecting the protectors no doubt, good times, and then we headed to Sacred Stone for further disorientation. Snow, fire, and a tipi, more old times with new friends, and then we headed to Black Hoop to blaze one. And we weren't even on tour, it just so happened that the family that was putting us up, lived right down the street from the fallback camp that I never fell back to.

'Standing Rock: The Musical', had happened in their backyard, and they had been there from the beginning, before the beginning, and they were still here after. They said that they've had to chase off trespassing dapl workers who were nosing around on the rez, and I've even heard reports of teargas explosions in Cannonball. The oppression of indians didn't end once the pipe made it into the ground. The water protectors were damaged and evicted, but the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe was sentenced to life in prison. At least until the pipe leaks a harsher penalty.

The next morning we gathered, ate some food, dillydallied, and eventually made it to the fire at the rally point, you know, indian time. It had been freezing last night at Sacred Stone, so we were as geared up as it gets, to hike ten miles in the snow, huddled up to the fire, and then it started to get warm out. Not warm warm, but among this particular crowd, it proved to be a fairly accurate forecast. I hadn't checked the weather, how could I really, though we did know that there was a blizzard hitting right now in SD. But I was committed either way, so what did it even matter? Already had everything I could possibly have to prepare, I had all of it.

And how often is the weatherman right anyway, except maybe at the commune, "Chance of rain today folks." And knowing what I know and don't know about energies and prayers and coincidences and all that stuff, whatever some science machine guesses might happen, has little to do with anything that has anything to do with me. I know the energetic power of the Rain Dance, and I know that a storm is attracted to the high-energy vibrations of a Wakinyan song, and I know that a block of Orgonite disperses overhead chemtrails as it balances the congested airwaves around you, and possibly saves the universe. And I know that they were calling for a blizzard here yesterday, and now it seems that the power of prayer and the commitment to continue, was parting the clouds as it had us sweating in no time. Pretty cool stuff.

The doplar radar may be able to detect vibrational patterns out there, which they can use to guess what's next based on what happened some other time, but they're just the butt of jokes as even the least spiritual insurance salesman knows an act of God when he sees one. Science is the study of the phenomenon perceivable in this material world, they use patterns to try to determine 'why', but they can only detect 'how', and 'how' is simply the mechanics employed by the phenomenal energies in the spirit world, as they manipulate matter in this dimension. Science is real. Spirit is real. Prayers and songs and dances can change our physical experience of this physical dimension. You might think I'm crazy, but at least I wasn't cold.

*******

And nobody could have predicted the weather back west after all. Somehow the rain had stopped, as the green town near the coast coincidentally received an unprecedented four day snow storm, and we had their extra gloves, lol. We'd been praying for good weather without windchill, and what a fun twist that they got it instead. Wopila tanka Tunkasila, aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

So we walked, and prayed, and walked, and prayed, just about thirty of us, me and Bob and De... well, Dean had done gone and got himself promoted to 'police liaison.' What fun, think I'll stick to walking though.

There was some press out there, nobody big or nothing, but I think there might have been a "Vice" team on location. And you know how I feel about pictures, even though I'm right up front of a public prayer walk, bringing awareness to the movement. But I can be pretty dodgy. There was really just one main photographer, in a car and able to be at every cross street ahead of us, just how many pictures of some people walking do you need? Unless you're just filling up dapl's facebank friends list. So I tried to block my face, either with my arm as my fist went up, or just a quick turn to the side. It felt like he was gunning for me harder, probably trying to get a decent shot with everyone's face for posterity, and he might even have gotten a couple while I was busy praying, but I don't give up a piece of my soul lightly.

That's a piece of the universe in there. It's kind of important to me. The light of the stars pouring through my Earthly body. An otherworldly spirit whose essence is encased in this material self. And the better I eat, the more connected I become, the more in-tune my physical body becomes with the frequency of the light within. And all that other anti-vibrational stuff keeps me from harmonizing with myself too, but I'm trying to cut as much of that out as I can, and it seems to somehow be correlated to my personal coalescion of connection.

And I pray. I hold ceremony. I tend the sacred fire. I offer Tobacco. I sing. I sweat. After a good hot lodge with the commanding vibrations of strong singers in each direction, your body is pretty tuned-in to your heart, which is synced up to the drum, the heartbeat of Unci Maka. Your ego can't grab ahold of you, too slippery I guess, but you have to keep at it. Nothing is permanent in this world. One sweat won't destroy your ego, but it will show you what it is like to connect without interference, which just might spark a desire to continue down that path of connection. But you gotta want it.

This Red Road is not easy though, it takes a lot of work, on yourself, and you have to walk with balance as to not fall off into either extreme. It is the center lane between light and dark, only there can you live in the now. It is the energetic pathway between the Sun and the Earth, between fire and water, between man and woman, head and heart, left and right, circle and square, and only with balance between the two, are we capable of fulfilling the destiny of humankind. The duality of our existence, is the mechanism through which we experience the energetic qualities of this vibrating universe, it is neither good nor evil, but two equally important sides of the same coin. You cannot have one without the other, and too much of either, will bring the entire thing to a crashing halt.

The duality of our species is what separates us from the rest of Wakan Tanka, as we follow the Fibonacci spiral on our quest to return to completion. The God of Phi is the perfectly balanced center line, around which our vibrating universe orbits, as it draws nearer with every pass through extremes. The closer your own path is to a balanced way of living, the closer your vibration is to oneness with God. But it is quite possible to get lost as you traverse the parabolas of life. This roller coaster of existence. It's easy to forget that the ride is why we are here, not to stand in the way of the flow of energy, as we attempt to remain at either extreme indefinitely.

The universe is in a constant state of flux far beyond our comprehension, which is reflected in our planet's continuous cycles, which are reflected in our own walk along her surface. Only with an understanding of balance, harmony, and the temporary nature of all things, do we have the capacity to experience the entirety of the universe in a single moment.

We are the universe, we are the Earth, we are each and every molecule of this great mystery of Wakan Tanka, and we have been given the greatest gift of them all. We have been given the illusion of separation, through which we each are able to experience the entirety of everything, as we discover what it means to be truly alive. We have been given the knowledge of our father, and the love of our mother, and the freedom to define our own path, as we regain the wisdom of our creator. We have been given the greatest gift of all, the gift of a bad memory.

*******

The definition of 'man' is "he who forgets", at least that's how I've heard a few indigenous tribes describing us, I can't quite remember who though. And it's true, sometimes my memory is softer than aluminum, so bad that I forget I even have a bad memory to begin with, oh that's good, I'm sure I'll remember that one later.

Memory can be exercised, can be developed, you can retrain your brain to conduct electrical energy to the memory centers of your mind. You can rewrite the pathways forgotten by the written word. You can once again remember to write a book, about the importance of not writing your memories down. And with enough work, you might be able to recall that man is a natural born forgetter.

They're not taking about forgetting to turn the stove off, although that's no problem with wood fired pizza. They're talking about the forgetful nature of our species as a whole, like how we've forgotten that we were even a part of nature to begin with. Man has the capacity to forget where he came from, to forget who he is, to forget that he is God, and to fully believe that he is man. Through the filter of ego, man is presented the duality of free will, his knowledge of choice provides the pathway to his destiny. He seeks reunion with God as he journeys towards the promised land of eternal white light. This separated state of church, defines religion as 'a bringing back together', and it is through sacred ceremony that man may once again remember who he is.

Before he was touched with divine amnesia, man was a fully aware member of the interconnected web of the cosmos. He, along with every other species of life, was fully conscious of the complete understandings of Wakan Tanka, as he selflessly carried out his role in the evolutionary building of the universe. His physical being was guided only by the instinctual instructions imprinted onto his DNA, he had no desire outside of this, because he was privy to the biggest picture of creation, and therefore he understood the purpose of his life within the tapestry of everything. No room to contemplate some trippy transient's personal philosophies. Every species worked in perfect symbiosis to progress the life cycle of the planet, because they understood no concept of self, as they were merely conduits for the Great Spirit to work its magic. They were each a cell of the whole, a component of the one, a piece of the fractal puzzle and simultaneously the completed works of the universe.

And then man was granted the option of choice. He retained his instinct, but he was allowed to decide his fate independently of the universal construct. He could still follow his heart, but he would now be presented the alternatives of his waking mind. His ego clouded the wisdom of perfection, which permitted him to make mistakes (and maybe to learn from them), which enabled him to believe that he was only human. The finger of God did not incarnate himself into the thumb of man, he bonked him over the head and made him forget who he already was.

*******

Anyway, kinda forgot where I was going with that one, oh yeah, we were walking the white carpet to our own movie premiere. We had a catered meeting room booked at a fancy hotel in bismark, where we were going to watch Standing Rock documentaries. One called "Awake", though a few weary walkers dozed off, and then the Unicorn Riot piece I'd already seen in asheville, though it was a few degrees cooler to see it here with even closer family members. And right there in the beginning of it, as dapl lights, cameras, and actions were just getting underway in the springtime, as the local natives were showing the first signs of resistance, the camera zoomed in on a smiling face locked down on an excavator, and the crowd erupted - we'd been sleeping in the guest bedroom of a celebrity.

Later that night we were in his living room, with some protectors who had traveled here from the enbridge line 3 camp in minnesota, where people were currently locking down to excavators. And they were hiring. I got some intel, expressed my interest, and my availability, and noted that I already had my winter gear packed. I still wanted to be writing, which I'd just recently resumed after a month hiatus as we reunified at Dean's, and I wondered if I could pull it off at a camp. I write by hand, so no electricity needed, but what kind of move is it to show up and not be able to dedicate my full attention to the mission? Or maybe that's still better than not showing up at all. Well, what's your action sequence like?

They were taking lock-downs to another level, working on it at least, and this bit had me ready to get to work. So a standard lock-down device can just be made out of a piece of steel pipe. You bend a curve in it, or even a ninety, you could feasibly use a short straight pipe, but the curve makes it more versatile for wrapping through the components of the machinery. And way more comfortable to be locked into, for the three to four hours that it takes to cut through and get to your handcuffs inside. That's just the basic floor model though, and you know I'm not one to mess around.

The next step up in the product line starts out with that same pipe, but you put it inside a larger vessel, like a twenty gallon barrel, or even just a bigger piece of pipe. Then you fill the space in-between the two metal pieces, with concrete and rebar and whatever else you can throw in there. It's a lot bulkier and heavier to get into place, but we've just upped the removal time to twelve hours. So we've taken that particular excavator out of commission for the entire day, as well as the crew and cops required to break us out.

But wait, there's more to this incredible offer, if you act now we'll throw in the latest greatest gizmo of gadgetry, an innovation that will insure the maximum amount of pissed off oil executives, as you remain locked down for up to thirty-six hours. Yes, you heard that correctly folks, a whopping 36 human hours, nearly an entire workweek of american values flushed right down the composting toilet. Geez, I don't know if I have it in me to stay locked in for a day and a half, excuse me officer, can you scratch my nose?

So this one takes a little more injunuity to put together, but for some reason, the universe has decided that my machining background should be aligned with a welding fabricator and a blacksmith from time to time, what a coincidence. This one only works with the straight pipe in the center, so we're limited as to the application. It's got the same outer concrete composite, but the entire shell is built on a set of ball bearings, that way they can't 'simply' cut through the concrete and steel, but now they must somehow rig the entire device to stop spinning, as they perform one and a half daily grinds. Ooh, and if we paint it real pretty, it'll look super psychedelic.

You're gonna wanna make sure you can film the removal, at least from a distance, and try not to ever get out of the camera's view. These private security firms don't exactly exhibit the staunchest morals, conscience, or intent on following the law, and you happen to be buckled to a gravedigger, just saying.

*******

In texas, a fourteen year old and another fella stuck their arms through the tracks and cuffed them to one another, they had to dismantle the whole thing, which has been my plan all along. In florida, some protectors gained access to the open end of a pipeline and climbed inside, they got 250 feet in and they were able to stall construction until fire and rescue pulled them out, and charged them with grand larceny for stealing a days worth of destruction. It may not stop the pipe in the end, but it certainly slows the construction, and in the case of our Standing Rock host, his direct actions led to the eventual gathering of fifteen thousand eco-warriors. If we continue to perform non-violent direct actions, we will reach the tipping point of no return, investors will back out, and it will no longer be socially acceptable for the militarized police to abuse peaceful citizens at the will of an international corporation.

But you will be arrested. Just because you are non-violent, doesn't mean that they will be. Our host had a boot pressed against the side of his face. And they may try to make an example of you in court. Like my cohort from the mash tent, Henry, the judge told him that he was the example, because he was white, and that "he didn't have a Dog in this fight." We are fighting for the water of the planet and the future of our children, it's gonna take more than some racist judge standing on stolen indian land to tell us that we don't belong.

And today, as I write this, more water protectors saw their trials, one was sentenced for thirty-six months for inciting a riot during the raid of the Last Child Camp, which I filmed the completely passive surrender of. And Energy Transfer Partners has been suing everyone, including Greenpeace and Earth First, who they claim to be part of an underground conspiracy to save the planet. The dakota access pipeline fight is over, it is in the ground and pumping oil, they have nothing to gain by attacking the opponents of destruction, which is obvious proof that they are scared of what we are capable of. And not only are they trying to make examples of us, they also want our strongest off of the frontline, but there's about to be a whole lot more where they came from.

We must stay non-violent at all costs. Any act of terror will only empower them to take even more drastic measures, and we know that they send in infiltrators to commit these violent 'acts', so we have to be on the lookout for impostors, but also not paranoid and suspicious of everyone, it's a fine line.

Now, I said non-violent, I'm not saying that I don't believe in tearing some stuff up. Our court defense is "imminent threat", because we are running out of time and options, we must stop the destruction while we still can. So, I'm not above damaging some equipment. Costing the company not only more time, but cold hard dollars too. We gotta be safe, can't just go in blowing stuff up, or cutting brake lines, but we could sugar some gas tanks, or dump a load of concrete in there, or simply bleach them out to match their white collar crimes.

Or look up the recipe for thermite. A simple compound made from aluminum and iron that will literally burn through any metal at over 4,000 degrees, like a bulldozer engine. But I just read about it in a book somewhere, so don't come looking for me if one morning an entire fleet of excavators, all have matching three inch holes through their motors, what a coincidence.

Anyway, that bit should get me locked down longer than the spinning barrel trick, but I will do whatever it takes to protect my mother, my children, and every drop of life in-between. I will happily spend the rest of my life making cell phones in prison for answering this call, although I'd probably be disappeared before that happened, but I will know that I tried my absolute hardest to stop the destruction of our planet. Our mother. Our kids. I only have one life to live, and it's not nearly long enough to sit around worrying about the future. I have no choice but to stand in the face of evil, it is what I am here for. The only time is now. It is a good day to die.

Fruits are a most wondrous creation. They are the breakfast of beginning, packed with love, by Unci Maka. They are the creation of the last, and the creation of the next.

Fruits nurture the nature within. They burst with vibration, as they resonate to the core. They are the incubators of tomorrow's children.

Fruits are gifts of energy given freely. They are the hand-me-downs of the ancestors. They nourish the seeds of the soul, as they bring life into light.

Fruits provide the essence of existence. They are the manifestation of spirit, and the mechanism of connection. They are the pathways into the eyes of the creator.

The fruits of life contain the knowledge of living, and they hold the necessary nutrition for sprouting new growth. They are the eggs through which seeds develop, as the Earth is to our own evolution. The planet is the ripened fruit of the universe as she encourages our seeds to bloom, yet we are also the fruit of her labor as we blossom from her soil, and upon our own path to maturity, we rediscover the fruit of the universe as it grows within.

*******

Speaking of fruit, Dean had this one-year-old jar of Buffalo meat, that we were hoping hadn't started sprouting life of its own. He'd been given this sacred gift of the Tatanka Oyate, preserved in its own fat, on the final day of camp last year. A year ago today. And now we find ourselves here again, circled around the sacred fire of the inipi, as we offer this spirit food back to the ashes through which it arose.

The energy of the Earth empowered the Buffalo, and its essence was taken in a sacred manner, with prayer and reverence. The two-leggeds prepared the animal with love, the gift exchange to Dean multiplied the heart vibrations, and his alter where it sat for a year, collected the prayers of the many who passed through. And now we stand around this sacred circle, on a sacred land, on a sacred day, energized by the commitment to prayer, and to the planet, and to those dedicated to her health with every step they take. We offer this gift of sacred energy back to the ground from which it came, with prayers of healing this union of vibration between heaven and Earth, through the conduit of man.

This flow of energy is real, the planet is powered by the vibrations of our being, prayer and song and dance and art and ceremony all provide the love she needs to operate. There has been a shift in the energetic relationship between us, it began thousands of years ago as prayer to our planet began to disappear from her surface. She was no longer able to be sustained by the healing powers of love, and was left only with the global energy of war, of fire, and as they continued to burn those who prayed for her healing, she continued to become sick with the vibrations of hatred.

We live in a world who has forgotten about the planet, who has forgotten that we are the planet, who has become so self-involved that we no longer hear the prayers of anyone outside of our own head. Outside the ego of humanity. The survival of humanity is all that matters to those who seem intent on its destruction.

This world of celebrated disconnection is not by chance, it is by design, it is the fruition of malevolence by those who feed from the cycles of negative energy. Those who reap the vibrational profits of a world at war, a planet divided, an existence lived in fear and scarcity and the continuation of ancestral trauma. And still today, they continue their attempted eradication of those who hold this energetic connection to the Earth sacred. They oppress all those who pray into her soil, as they erase the roots paganistic language. They demolish sacred spaces, as they try to crush any hope of rebuilding her vibrational strength. They are overtly committed to the destruction of her essence, as they continue to pour death into the veins of her being. They have convinced the followers to relish in the devastation, to no longer believe that the purpose of life can be found in the reflections of her water, but to hold sacred the very conduit of her demise.

The greed of those who have seized control, has enslaved ninety-nine percent of life on Earth, but we are the untouchable one percent. We cannot be bought. We cannot be brainwashed. We have already begun the rebuilding of her power, and as she regains the consciousness of connection, there is not a cage in this world that will be able to contain her glory.

We breathe life into her being, as we pray into her soil. We spread the seeds of inspiration, as we share ceremony with our brothers and sisters. We walk a path committed to healing her water, as we are reminded that she is watching over us as well. We give her Tobacco, as it facilitates the transfer of energy between us. And today, we offer her this sacred spirit of the Buffalo, along with prayers of gratitude for all that she provides. Through our constant efforts of repairing the interconnectedness of life, she is beginning to rise up, as she awakens from the nightmare that has held her captive for so long.

The dawn of a new world is upon us. We are entering an era of regrowth. The forces who oppose this transition will not give up easily, but they will have no choice, as her might overwhelms the material grip that has allowed them to hold the planet hostage for millennia. They will deny their upheaval for as long as they can, in a desperate attempt to retain power. They will increase their efforts of illusion, as they struggle for their own survival, often to the detriment of yours.

We are at the precipice of a battle for the freedom of our planet, this chaotic world of minor catastrophe is merely the calm before the storm, they have no limit to the collateral damage that they are willing to sacrifice in order to maintain control. The time has come to choose your destiny, will you wake up and join us as we return our mother to the throne, or will you simply sleep through the greatest adventure in the history of the world? No pressure or anything, but you should probably decide sooner than later, the bus leaves at sunrise.

*******

Uncle asked me to sing a prayer song as we began our family's ceremony, then we each took a turn offering a pinch of the Tatanka to the grandfathers of the peta wakan. Only I remained to pray, most of the jar was still full, as it was only missing a handful of pinches, so Uncle asked me to empty the remainder into the pocket we'd made between the stones. He said that I had prepared our food out here all winter long, that I had prayed over every meal, and that it only seemed right that I prepared this sacred offering of nourishment, as we exchange energy with the ancestors. I knelt down and held a pinch in my hand, as I poured gratitude from my heart.

Wopila tanka for my own personal path of awakening that began here, for the year of incredible journey that has unfolded since, and for the many paths that endlessly interconnect to create the unbreakable strength of this movement. We are grateful to have been called to action, to have been given this purpose in life, and we are honored to carry the responsibility of inspiring great change in this world. We are in awe of the miraculous intricacies through which you provide us with overwhelming abundance, and I pray that we are able to take in your loving vibration and pour it back out in a good way, as we bring healing to the wounds of separation between your energy and ours. Please accept this gift of sacred medicine as a token of our gratitude, and a symbol of our undying commitment to protecting your kingdom of life. Thank you for every ray of sunshine, and every drop of water, and every single breath that you have given us in this most incredible Earthly experience. Aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

Then I used a knife to scrape the rest of the meat into the stones, and shifted them back into place. The prayer walk was over. It was time to go home. It had been magical to return here and once again see the glimmer of hope in the snow covered prairie, but now that magic is inside each of us, and it is our duty to spread it out into the world as we follow the pull of our heart vibrations. And my heart had only one thing to say, "taste it", so I licked the knife and put it away, as we once again escaped the icy tundra of Standing Rock north dakota. And this time, it didn't taste like chicken.

*******

We drove straight through, well, Dean did, I mostly slept, though I did wake to hear, "At 4:20, do Buffalo turn into... Puffalo?" And the next time I opened my eyes, I saw a sign that we had successfully escaped the land of seven year sentences, as we found ourselves in a state where there are billboards for marijuana.

It was nice to be back in a space where you don't have to be paranoid of catching a buzz, where you can openly talk to an honest cop, and not be worried about him taking a peek in your medicine bag, but it was also a bit excessive at times. It was fun to celebrate, for a month, as I even heard the announcement that we had officially crossed the threshold between medicine and recreation. And it's all good, but I got stuff to do. Not that we weren't productive, it's the first rule of power tools after all, but I'd sit down to write and some of this mess you've been reading would come out. And while I do love to recreate, I love to create more, and I also want to believe what I write.

Marijuana is a medicine, without a doubt, a gift of the Earth that treats a plethora of ailments, including cancer, and it provides a direct connection to the song of the planet. Your endocannabinoid system is one of the most vital for your health, and is intertwined with every other system and organ as it increases their functionality, in a way that no other system in the human body has evolved to be, or God gave to be, and it is powered by the cannabinoids found in cannabis. Humans have a fully integrated processing system for this specific plant, and no other, coincidence?

But as with any medicine, it can be overdone. You're not gonna overdose, except maybe on pizza, but the more you partake, the more tolerance you build, and the less effective the treatment becomes. And soon you find yourself taking to excess, what was already a potent plant when used in moderation.

Again, no judgements, I'm generally the last in the room to pass, and this was really the first I'd ever considered a path of stepping out of rotation. But I want to be taken seriously about the medicine plant, by myself as well, and I also know that an overconsumption of it, only puts more burden on the agricultural practices of the edible flower. If I have a limited supply, I can make a little go a long way, but when there's a seemingly endless surplus, it becomes far more difficult to rationalize the one-hitter.

It is a powerful tool for creation, for inspiration, for connecting to the streams of consciousness that give you insight into the universe, and a plant with those incredible abilities, should most certainly be held sacred. And that is where I'm at with it now, I do not partake daily anymore, but only when my heart compels me to do so. I prepare it with intent, and I pray to Unci Maka as I hold the unlit sacrament, and I treat it as such. Through this cutting back of recreation, the spiritual connection to nature has become intensified, and my ability to gain understandings outside of my own faculties, has been greatly increased. I no longer need to smoke to feel normal. Who wants to feel normal anyway? I am now free to experience the power of this medicine at its full strength.

I've also been able to discover the true magic of the plant, what it is that makes the world seem to come alive around you, it is simply a shortcut to a state of mind that is fully achievable without a lighter. It creates an instant pathway to mindfulness, it puts you in the now, it melts away the blockages that keep you distracted, and you are able to experience the miracles of the universe as they unfold around you. You can see the trees breathe, or the infrastructure of the infinite in the rippling energy of the water, and I now understand this to be the same path of connection, found with the least mild of the psychedelic flow chart. And it's all in your mind, which is under your control, and with practiced mindfulness, you can enter this dream state without external stimulant.

I will not knock those whose treatment of this medicine reflects that of mine for over half my life, but I will simply suggest an experimental cutting back and practice of intent, and if that doesn't fit into your schedule one, then do whatever feels right. But just consider that as good as it makes you feel to smoke, every time you do, you are removing your mind's need to flex that muscle on a clear head. If you don't always take the easy way out of the cages of the mind, then you will continue to build your ability to climb out all on your own. So the less you get high, the easier it is to get high, plus it's cheaper.

*******

And I picked a curious place to begin my cutting back, this has been the most abundance I have ever experienced, but luckily I was moving into my own place up the hill. Now that the month-long reunion was over, as well as the snow shoe ice-capade, it was time to settle into some sort of groove around here. I craved a tipi, for obvious reasons, but I'd have to settle for a camper behind the shop. No concrete foundation, plus a table for writing, inflated wheels to insure my ego's temporary residency, yeah, I think this'll do just fine. A grounded bedspread would be preferred, but it was warm enough to stay barefoot on my many commutes for coffee, and I was now able to get back in the flow of philosophizing. Had the proper space to get into my head, and out of it, but this new setup had one little dilemma attached to it - I had to pay rent.

The nerve. Who in the world would charge water protectors rent as they commit their lives to saving our planet? Well, another water protector, because he's got to pay the bank, or the police will show up here and evict us, again. Well, when you put it that way...

This was a magical ride that no one wanted to let go of, but the only way to keep it going was to grease the wheels, and it wouldn't be fair to put that burden completely on Dean. He wasn't out to profit at our expense, he just wanted to be able to keep the dream afloat, as he also tried to save the world, plus it was by far the lowest rent payment I'd ever considered paying.

I didn't have a job of course, and was unwilling to sacrifice my heart for paper products, but I'd throw up an ad for music lessons and leave the rest up to the universe. Maybe this was the mechanism of introducing me to a new student of more than binary beats, or maybe a new teacher, or I might stumble into an odd job or two, I'm certainly odd enough. I'd give it a month and see what my heart had to say about it, he by no means wanted me to rush out and become a capitalist, and he agreed to not call it rent, but just a tax deductible donation to the community fund of living expense.

I got online and made a craigslist post with a flyer I'd used before, and immediately I felt icky. I've always charged $100 for a two hour lesson, it's the industry standard rate, and I was always met with satisfaction of the price for knowledge, as I helped aspiring producers learn to use the thousands they'd already spent on their gear.

So I make the ad, and obviously I put a hundo as the cost. I could go cheaper to try to get my foot in the scene of a new city, but I know I'm worth the bill, and now I've found myself in the once familiar position of having to put a price tag on my time. Having to determine how many paper scraps an hour of my life is worth. A disposable income, that moments ago held negative interest in my mind, and now I can feel its grip creeping in as I start to believe that it holds value. If I charge more, I can work less, but if I charge less, I can get more clients, and because of my unwillingness to sell out, I find myself raising the price of a service that I would happily provide to any stranger for free.

I felt gross. I felt the capitalist that I used to be, coming back into power, and not because I was greedy, it was just because I didn't want to be a bum. A burden. I didn't want my family to work harder so that I didn't have to. I may not agree with a world built on building an empire, and all in exchange for some empirical measure of self-worth, whose only value is in its ability to purchase the fundamentals of family life, from the empire, but what else is there?

I got through it with a compromise, I listed my list rate, but then a clear disclaimer that I hated money and would prefer some kind of trade for something cool, tools or toys or gear or food or something that I could rationalize as an exchange of gifts, while I made a new friend, and my obvious off-gridness might even connect me with a fellow Earthling.

I tried to put the money market out of my mind, I'd done my part and the rest was up to the universe. I knew that I would not compromise my beliefs for a paycheck, so if that meant moving on, so be it. I'm already pretty much packed as it is. I got into a pretty good flow of writing in the morning, but then I felt extra weight to work around the commune. Since I wasn't bringing in any bacon, the least I could do was cook it. And those that did work, weren't around to be a part of the family. So I focused on the one thing I could do for everyone, a priority that obviously superseded snacktime. Prayer.

With Randy gone, I was in charge of the fire, and more than thrilled to carry that responsibility. We had been depleting the firewood supply, so Uncle and I hatched a plan to outsource our fuel, we could harvest it from the clearcut. There were miles of devastation that offered little hope for humanity, sure, it had opened up a spectacular sunset view, but we'd much rather be lost in a sea of massive Oaks.

But the rubble was actually filled with the perfect size pieces for a sweat fire, three and four inches around and three or four feet long, that way they can cover a stack of forty-two stones. It was damp out there, but where wasn't it, so we gathered a bunch of bundles and set them in the Sun to dry a bit. We'd sing prayer songs and carry armloads out of the chaos, hoping to heal the land and help its suffering to not be completely in vain. It was such a sad site of massacre, piles of bodies of those who simply got caught in the crossfire of the primary targets, and I pray that including them in our sacred ceremony, somehow helped them along their journey through the spirit world.

*******

I feel such a strong connection to the Green Nation, and I know that I'm just getting started really, but I also know that I didn't feel this way a couple of years ago. I was a city stepping music producer, far removed from a life without concrete, and I'd even grown up in the middle of the woods. I'd always loved to explore outside, climbing trees and playing in the creek, and was all about eating wild Nuts and Berries and Muscadines, so I was getting those pure Sun vibrations.

Something was keeping me more grounded than most, but I certainly never worshiped the ground I walked on, that would have been pure baptist blasphemy. Just as my first rap cassette was tossed out as the devil's music, a prayer to any direction but up, would have been as illegal as a sweat lodge in 1977.

I grew up in a true patriarchy, I was a subservient to my father, as we worshiped his father in the sky. We were the descendants of Adam, the most important creation of creation, and although I always heard that God was in everything around us, this is not a concept embodied by the church. We were the sinners of mankind, and it was our sworn duty to hold dominion over all of the lesser creatures of our planet, including the women. Everyone worked for us, and we worked for the church, as we paid the admission of guilt every sunday. But normal old humans can't talk to God directly, so we hired a preacher man to do it for us. He told us about our sins and our salvation, the kids got to have their own club where we colored the pages of indoctrination, and then we were cleared for work release, as we got to forget about prayer for another seven days. We had extended the lease on our timeshare in heaven. And my dad was far from a weekend christian, he was devout in his belief for sure, but when your prayers are dissipated into heaven, it's easy to become disconnected from the Earth.

It's a man's world, we're in charge until God returns, and it is our responsibility to show the world the importance of praying to the one true God of invisibility, instead of the quite visible miracles that they've been experiencing their entire lives. There is no room on this Earth for dirt worshiping heathens who drum and sing the devil's music, those living a life of financial poverty, as they rely on the naturally occurring foods of their own bioregion. It is our duty to save them.

We must teach them about the real God, which means teaching them english, because he is unexplainable in their language of unabstraction. We must teach them that God cannot hear you if you pray to the dirt, or to the trees, or to the water, it is only through your right hand on his book that he will hear your testimony. We must teach them that it is ungodly to depend on the natural world for sustenance, we are human, we are supposed to work hard as we shape the land into our own broken image. We must teach them the importance of money, that way they can export the wealth of their land, in order to buy their ticket to heaven. Plus, now they can afford to feed their newfound sugar addiction. And alcohol. We must continue to spread the patriarchal doctrines of our warmongering church, because as long as people worship the Earth, they'll never let us exploit it.

And on that note, pops and I flew to romania, as I was indoctrinated on the ways of the missionary. We didn't beat anyone into christianity, not personally at least, but we did do most of our humanitarian work at an orphanage. So we saved kids who had no hope, and no other option but our book, and no one to share their traditional spirituality with them, and knowing what I know now, for all I know, they had been kidnapped from the gypsies and boarded into this school.

*******

The Lakota way is not for everyone, they would never push it on another, and it does not discount the legitimacy of any other ways of connection. It is about humbling yourself to the awesome power of God in everything around you, which enables you to feel her inside of yourself, and to understand that we are all related. The big man's church, on the other hand, is for everyone whether they like it or not, and he's super jealous, so we kill any who don't kiss his ring. But the upside, is that he lets us be in charge of everyone on the planet, at least until we fulfill his prophecy of armageddon.

Even the most fearful of God, would still have to admit that abusing children into belief doesn't sound very christian at all. Definitely not something that would ever happen in modern times, so what do you think it was all about way back then? Obviously some maniacal entity hijacked the church, and used its innocents to unknowingly spread hate as they spread the word. And I guess you could somehow still be in denial about the missionary's position in america, but the church proudly fought bloody crusades in the name of spreading christianity, and don't even ask about the inquisition, and the wars keep going back until actual biblical times, it's right there in the handbook - it is perfectly kosher to kill in the name of the lord.

So this missionary group, they work for the church, led by the father, who reports to his father, and it seems that it links all the way back to the pope. Or the king. Still can't quite figure out which one's in charge. But they're gonna stay in charge, and they're gonna keep expanding their customer base, that's just good business. And what's not good for business, is for people to be able to pray for free to the visible world around them, and to eat for free when their prayers are answered, and this cycle of free energy is gonna make it tough to get them to pledge allegiance to our flag. How are we gonna be able to rule the world, if people are given the fundamentals of life directly from the planet?

And if you think christianity isn't about ruling the world, then maybe you're right, but certainly kingships are, that's the whole point of the monarchy. And coincidentally, the version of the book that we took to romania, was edited by King James himself. The origins of christianity may not have been of malintent, but religion has been used by the forces of tyranny as a way to control the people for thousands of years, quite openly. And only through a religion that keeps God locked away behind an invisible forcefield, does the man at the top with the keys have any type of authority.

So we worship the pope, or we reform that plan a little bit and cut out the middle man, but we still pray to the Empty Space God of fire and brimstone. The one that we are meant to live in fear of, as we fight our wars in his name. And also we should probably start being scared to die, now that we'll be ejected into the unknown, instead of recirculated into the infinity that we can see unfolding in every direction. When you can feel your ancestors under your feet, and watch the sacred return to the Earth, there's no need to box up your love and bury it six feet under.

And he evicted us from Eden because we are natural born sinners, so now we must cultivate our own sustenance. But at least we have the ultimate knowledge of God through that forbidden taste of paradise, which only confirms that we are in charge of all of the lesser creatures, who are less godly than ourselves, because we were made in his image. "His" image, so God is definitely a dude, he's the father and the son, but not the Sun. It's plain english again, our species is called, "Man." We are his favorite, women were made for our benefit, and our demise, so we'll be in charge from now on. We'll pass kingships to the eldest sons, the popeship to another little-boy-lovin uncle, and even when we decide to let the peasants vote, there's no way we'd allow the women to join in.

And as for all of these tree hugging matriarchal societies around the globe, the ones who find balance between worshiping their Mother Earth and their Father Sky (but not our father in the sky, ours is way different), well, their worldview of a living planet will never work out with our control mechanisms, so we'll just use our manly firepower to burn the villages to their precious ground. We'll convince them to be fearful of our God, and of this hell on Earth, plus we'll just shoot them if they insist on singing their hey's and ha's and ho's.

We're not complete monsters though, we'll even reschedule our own hohoho's to coincide with the winter solstice ceremonies practiced all around the world, by indigenous communities who were actually synced up to the actual cycles of the planet's revolution, not some silly made-up five day work week. But how could those heathens have any clue about how the universe works? Why, they can't even speak the king's english.

*******

Somehow they did though, the ancient knowledge of celestial cycles far outside their timeline of sight, is astounding. It's like they had some kind of uncanny connection to the stars, some kind of magic language that unlocked secrets that we can't even figure out with our fancy coperniscopes. Like how the Lakota knew that there were nine stars of the Pleiades, not the seven sisters of colonized astronomy, and only now have we developed the technology to see the other two. We can still laugh if they talk about the Star People though, what do they know about interdimensional space beings, silly savages, and I'm sure that all those other cultures around the globe who acknowledge the significance of these particular stars, are just as lost as Atlantis.

Why would we ever take astrology advice from people who pray to the Sun and Moon and stars and planets? Don't they know that God isn't in any of that stuff? He's got his head in the clouds of a magic kingdom, one that you have to ride the prismatic rainbow up to, and he's even offered a low introductory rate of ten percent to go on this mission of a lifetime. So of course there's nothing of importance beyond this world, he created it for our exclusive benefit, white men I mean, and that's more than obvious when you see that we are in the center of the universe.

Oh, you mean we're not? You mean that those hippie indians who foolishly believe that the map to the stars is inside their heart, that they somehow wildly guessed the particulars of universal mechanics more accurately than each fallible iteration of our own municipal misunderstanding? Even to this day? Well, that certainly doesn't sound like any history passed down by the fathers of colonial astronomy.

And your fancy pie chart of the Mayans, it doesn't even make sense, how could you ever get to work on time, when time is always in a state of flux? Everchanging over some arbitrary thirteen thousand year cycle, it'll make a lot more sense to lock in a date right now, and print out tomorrow's timesheet. And so what, now that our nasa weebles confirmed the wobble of our spacewalk, which greatly affects basically everything, and is the basis for the entire self-destructing calendar in question, well, obviously that's just a coincidence. They didn't even require students to purchase graphing calculators, how could they ever have conceptualized the cyclical waveform of universal mystery's history?

Well, somehow they did. Whether it was alien intervention, or eating the magical fruits of psychedelic cosmology, or simply maintaining a balanced diet of Sun-kissed Earth foods, there's no denying that the preexisting condition of these uncivilized cultures, was far more spatially aware than the brute force required to colonize peaceful protectors in prayer. They understood the phases of the moon, the phases of humankind, and the phases of the celestial government, though I'm not talking about the federation of galactic senators.

The wobbling tilt of the Earth's rotational axis, is obviously linked to the evolution of her revolution, even if it's just the catalyst for the cycling periods of hot and cold mood swings that test the fortitude of her specimens. And the wobble is too precisely aligned with outside influences, to be a simple coincidence of the cosmos. Even modern science might acknowledge that a nine star judiciary panel, could gravitationally decide the fate of our planet's awkward teenage years.

And now we await the return of the Star People, or the Star Nation, the scientifical beings of light that pull on the vibrational field of our planet, which means that they are capable of bringing change to our planet's bias. And our planet's tilted nature provides the adversaries for evolution, but it seems like I'm forgetting a step in-between there or something.

Oh yeah, Ra Ra Ra, the Sun god of the egyptians, as well as their illuminatic pyramid schemes of the top-down system of patriarchal slavery. But what's the Sun got to do with the teetering tottering taters of planet Earth? Sure, he's here to cheer on our changing seasons, he's wrapping up his current tenure with flares, and his radiating smile might be linked to the thirteen thousand year transition between Ice Age and Rango, but I'm getting tired of talking about all this science stuff, can't we get back into the metaphysical melodrama between mom and dad?

*******

Sure thing, but I forget where we left off, I guess I'll just start back at the beginning. Or even before the beginning, back when mom was still figuring out her own place in this world, before she'd settled down into a path of stability. Glad she didn't birth back then, she'd have been a terrible teenage mother, violent mood swings, raging eruptions of volcanic acne across her face, constant meltdowns, and then the cold shoulders of icy waves, but technically it wasn't her fault, it was only because of dad's constant glare that she spun out of control.

Back then, she didn't know what she wanted out of life, who does, and her wavering demeanor was far more drastic than the ebb and flow of her current wobble. Her moon cycle hadn't fully developed yet, and her periods of tilted emotion lasted far longer than thirteen thousand years. If we were to chart the procession of her equinox with a fibonacci wave of narrowing spirals, one where the current cycle we just began will last about thirteen thousand years, then the prehistoric ups and downs of her vibration through space, would have been in the millions. She went through many many cyclical returns of getting herself together and then falling to pieces, just like the universe before her had. Each time she got a little closer to figuring herself out, and spent less and less time in the throes distress.

Eventually, she cooled off enough to be receptive to dad's love songs, but only once she'd hydrated and found a balance between her water and his fire. Then things got steamy. The vibrating energy of the Sun entered the egg of our planetary womb, and life was created from the dust of the Earth. The scientific creator of our planet, sent scientific waves of energy, in the form of scientifically unexplainable photons, down into the building blocks of our vibrating Earth, and new life was conceived through the intertwining spirals of the first Earthling's DNA. And of course it was a hippie water birth.

She continued to experience the waves of emotion common to a new mother, especially with the on-again-off-again relationship with her babydaddy, and the development of life slowly began to take place. We experienced long cycles of solar energy, which empowered such infamous cycles as the great oxygenation event of the photosynthesizing Cyanobacteria, and then we'd go for long periods where it seemed that he had forgotten about us, as mom became cold and depressed and just slept a lot. It seemed unfair at the time, but through the adversity of figuring it out on our own, we became stronger. More fit to survive.

And then he'd be back in our lives for a while, updating us with advice, and imparting us with his wisdom through the DNA upgrades of his undeniable radiation. You could really see what attracted mom to his charismatic gravity, as life bloomed into new arenas, including onto land, but once again we were separated from his communication. So much so, that we even separated from being able to directly interpret his words through our skin, and we separated from wanting to be held by our mom, so we learned to walk. Only through the back and forth cycles of nuclear radiation and global adversity, was the kingdom of animals able to evolve the ability to exist without an umbilical cord.

We were far from disconnected however, our mom's song could be heard in every vibration around us, and we even learned to harmonize with her. And dad's encouragement kept coming through the airwaves, as he left coded messages in the photocells of those who could still interpret him directly. These transitory cycles continued for millions more, as we kept on keeping on, and life kept getting cooler and cooler as we developed more and more complex ways of sensing the vibrations all around us.

We were never scared or anything, we were always with our almighty mom, and our dad kept us up-to-date with everything we needed to succeed in life. He still understood more than us, he was far more experienced and had a better perspective on the goings-on of our home life, but through each little tidbit of vibrational knowledge that he imparted into our DNA, we slowly grew up closer and closer to his image. We were evolving towards the complete universal understanding of our father in the sky, through the nurturing of our mother, who was merely following her natural sleep cycles, the days and nights that were perfectly synced with the astronomically scaled sunrise and set of her equinox. These cycles of universal proportions are hardly fathomable by a microscopic creature living on Earth, like us, but to her, and to him, lots of stuff could happen in just a single day. Or seven.

Now, it's gonna take a bit of wrapping my head around how to wrap this all up, but I promise I'm going somewhere with this, even if it is the asylum. So for now, let's just remember that first cell of spiraling DNA in the womb of our planet's unbroken water, our first biological ancestor. And remember that the rest of life spiraled out from there, in many miraculous incarnations of the same energy, the same light, the same spirit. And here we are today, highly evolved beings of circular contemplation, but technically no more heirs to the throne than any other species along our shared bloodline. We are not kings of the planet, or of the animals, or even the Apes, and any insinuation that we are, simply makes us look the fool. We are children of the Earth, we are members of a family, one that loves us very much, but we are fully capable of hurting those closest to our hearts as we forget where we came from. Growing up is only natural, it is just another cycle of life, and we may very well find ourselves in a position of power to do something. But a true leader does so with humility, patience, and understanding, and they hold one sentiment above all others - Mitakuye Oiyasin, we are all related - and with that vibration in your heart, you may truly feel the pain I do, as I sing my song among this clearcut example of man's unfitness to rule the world.

*******

Every four or five days, Uncle and I would get the itch about the same time, not the permadamp clothing itch, but the gravitational pull to the centering of the lodge. I took the dome apart and dried it by the woodstove every time, so it took a little prep to reconstruct, but I was honored to be able to fulfill this sacred role for my family. I'd been blessed to have learned to keep the peta wakan from so many facilitators of ceremony, and it felt really good to be able to help my family to their own connection in this way. It would have been nice to have had them all by our side as we collected wood, but everyone had a lot going on, especially the ones with 'real jobs', so I was in no way disheartened to do it alone.

I did know that the ceremony would resonate with them in a deeper way as they contributed more of their energy to the stones, but I also remembered everyone's hard work in the initial readying of the lodge space. And a few of them would try to pick up the songs I sang around the commune, but now that I had the camper, the drum was farther away from their mainframe.

And I didn't want to impose my screeching voice onto those who had not connected through these ways, some hippie squealing out indian songs is one thing to a family member who also prays to Unci Maka, but it may not mean the same to the atheist up the hill. Not that my brother up there ever cast as much as a sideways look at our commitment to prayer, or my prioritization of the lodge, or our insistence on a spirit plate, in fact, he was absolutely the most accommodating non-believer I've ever met. So I felt it only right to extend him the same courtesy.

The Lakota way is not for everyone, so when I was the one to pray at dinner, I didn't pray to "Tunkasila", I spoke to our "creator", and kept it to self-reflective topics that even the most devout non-believer could resonate with. We are all on our own journeys through this miracle of life, and I am not here to push a soul into anything they are not ready for, but I am here to hold your hand as you step into the light, once it is finally your time to shine.

But my camp family, who cares if they hear me howling to the moon? Indian songs erupting at sunrise were par for the course back at the Rock, and maybe it'll help them learn a few for the lodge. Plus, Dean had a great playlist of Sun Dance songs that he would blast over his bluetooth speakers in the morning, or the Grateful Dead, freakin hippies. And they may not have had time to help put the sweat together, but they were super supportive of my role, always thanking me for facilitating the prayer, helping me find anything I needed to upgrade the lodge, quick to give me Sage or Tobacco, and then Uncle and I would finally get a wet fire going and it was time to sweat again.

I definitely upped my fire skills even further in this climate. From the tundra to the tropics, I'm pretty set on my firetender merit badge, especially with the piece of super flammable Birch bark that I 'randomly' found in the snow banks of Standing Rock.

There wasn't a ton of notice before we would sweat. We'd be working on it for a few days, so you knew it was coming sometime, but it was kind of up to Uncle and the grandfathers as to when it would happen, though he often left it up to me. I'd ask around and see what would work best for everyone, and land on whatever felt right, but more often than not, it ended up just being Uncle and me in the lodge. That was the disheartening part. I wanted to facilitate this prayer for those that I knew needed its strength in their hearts, but instead, I was left to pray for them on my own. Not that I mind a one-on-one sweat, it gives you a real chance to put it all out there, the comfort of knowing that everyone involved holds the space as sacred as you do, and that they recognize your understanding of what is truly important in this world. For this world.

We had some really good lodges, hardcore praying, and Uncle shared some teachings with me that he probably wouldn't have brought out in a more public space. But I know the power of this ceremony, on my own path at least, and I knew that it could help my family in their own struggles with that other world. I'd often hear things like, "I'm not in the right headspace for that right now." And I get it, it's gonna be intense, if you got a lot rattling around in there, then it might get slammed in your face as your face is slammed to the dirt, but brother, this is exactly when you need the lodge the most. That's what it's here for.

You got worries? Stress? Too many things on your mind to think? They'll melt away in the first round and you'll have three more to reconnect in a good way. And others would stay out as a courtesy to us, "I don't want to take away from your prayer because my head's not in it." Sister, none of our heads are in it, that's kinda the point. And we pray all the time, it'll hurt my heart much more to be left to pray for you, and not with you.

And then I'd see my family dealing with drama, and as a natural counselor I found myself giving advice, often to both sides of the fence, which of course I tried to cut down. They'd wonder how I always seemed to have it together, why was I so calm about stuff that bothered everyone else, what was so special about me that I didn't get frazzled, as even our strongest had to work through the occasional crisis?

Um... don't you think it might have something to do with my constant stream of prayer? I pray every morning, I serenade the Sun and talk to the water, I sing prayer songs throughout the day and take many moments to mumble sweet nothings to Unci Maka. I am committed to burning a sweat fire at every single opportunity I have to hold ceremony, it is the most important thing in my world, and through my open heart and honest search for humility, I have found an inner peace that no squabble of the two-leggeds could possibly shake.

I know that I have found a connection that not everyone else has, and maybe they won't, or not through this way at least, but I have also been given the power to share my ways with our family. I know that I can help them to build spiritual strength, even if it's not through their participation in the lodge, but through the understanding that I gain and am able to translate into their lives. I think it may have been the crazy heat of the first one that got me, or the completely blank slate I came into it with, or the particular dialog that Marty 'randomly' shared in the wake of my rebirth, or me finding an outlet to heal in a good way as I wrote out my heart's contents, or the 'luck' of me being guided to a land of clear food, water, and prayer, but whatever it was that did it, I am eternally grateful for this way to pray. And with this gratitude, comes great responsibility, as the entirety of my remaining life is now dedicated to a walk of prayer and inspiration, as I learn to live in a good way.

*******

And you want me to get a job? You want me to put down my sacred promise of complete commitment to healing our mother, so that I can pay rent to live on her? You want me to forget about the lodge for a few days, so that I can cash into the system that I'm praying will crumble before it's too late? Geez.

No lessons had manifested yet, and I'd even put up a few permanentized print copies of the flyer, but now we might have actually come up with a solution that could work out for everyone. There was a protector here with a little one, and mom had lined up work for herself, a few different jobs in fact, but she needed childcare. Now, hanging out with the children of the movement, that's definitely something I can get down with. And I'm good at it. And I would do it for absolutely free. Wait, that won't work, gotta have the mazaska, ok, well, how about mom just covers my rent without me even touching it, and I'll escape my moral dilemma while I get to do stunts and stuff with my little homie.

I'm digging it, hoped I could write and babysit, but some of this nonsense is a little too heady to make up while I'm busy training the next generation of water protection. So we'd skateboard and go on missions, not missionary missions, like ninja missions, and we were starting to build a pretty strong unclehood. Kiddo was one who has trouble connecting with others, especially those who don't take the time to treat kids like humans, so my kid-like maturation level was something he could relate to in a big way. It was a magical thing we had going on, and I'd gotten in the groove of waking early to write for a few quiet hours, plus still having time to do projects around the commune, and of course make frybread, but nothing is permanent in this world.

It was just gonna be too much for mom to cover my end of the deal, she had a lot going on in her own life already, and it wasn't fair to expect her to pay me for something that a real family should be doing for free. That's how a tribe works, we take care of each other out of unconditional love, not out of monetary compensation. There's no salary big enough for being Uncle Deeg, or Uncle Peepaw as I somehow came to be known, so when an odd job finally popped up and my brother needed my help to pull it off, I signed up.

*******

It was gonna be a cool gig, and one that my multitude of experiences would come in handy for, plus, it was basically one big stunt. He'd been contracted to build a giant roof on a giant barn, thirty feet up in the air, time to get high. It was a massive feat of engineering, and the two of us were gonna tackle it alone, up on a skyscraper of scaffolding. And somehow, I think we've actually got this. He was the brains, and the braun, so all I had to do was the climbing and swinging and nailing. Sounds pretty doable, as long as I can forget my constructive criticism, and my beef with the barnyard, and on the first day we managed to at least get the scaffold tower assembled before the daily deluge drowned us out.

We were working at the same organic lettuce farm that some of the rest of the family 'gardened' at. And dude was an amazing chef. We'd gone over for a dinner party one night and I'd helped in the kitchen. I'm still not much for parties, but when he asked if I minded cutting garlic, he managed to warm me up to the idea. I don't do well in crowds anymore, but before it was going strong, I connected with an older couple who were intrigued by my alternative lifestyle. I generally keep my stronger opinions to myself, but as I start to ease them out there, if someone is receptive to my words, then I can go on for quite a while, as you know.

They were all ears and had similar views of my critique of industrial agriculture, as I chopped store-bought garlic in a farmhouse. And as I mentioned the microbiology disturbed by the plow and the accompanying release of gasses into our greenhouse, she chimed right in, "And that is why you should never till your garden." Yes, freaking yes, exactly! I didn't expect to get such reciprocity from those of an earlier generation who do not share my spiritual connection with the land, maybe there is hope for humanity yet.

And then the party started, and beverages got flowing, so I ended up outside in the trees for most of it, after a few Oysters at least. We all took a trip down to the 'garden', not too big, a couple greenhouses and a few long rows of fancy leaves, apparently he was the premier grower of fresh local salads for many of the nearby restaurants. I'm glad we were involved with someone committed to organic growing, and we always had a big box of the finest greens at the commune, but this was no garden, it was a farm.

*******

A great big fence to protect the investment from hungry travelers, long rows of calculated efficiency, and a cash money commitment to the bottom line. But what can I say? I happily eat the greens, and the other stuff I've been eating is less local, less organic, and less loved on, so I don't have much room to complain. (JK, I have a whole other notebook left.)

I may be able to eat your food without suffering from a mental break, but there's no way that I can work in your field. I can't allow my hands to perpetuate the commoditization of Unci Maka. I barely got through the requested favor of pulling the tiller out of the shed, so that my sister could plow the Earth to pieces. I'm not gonna sit there and watch her struggle with it, but unseen was my internal struggle as I pulled it into position. And she needed to work to pay rent too, so certainly this was the best place to do it and not have to enter the machine.

But this was still the machine. This was feeding right into colonization. The farmer had done lots to restore the land, it had been devastated by the previous cattle feed lot, including the stream that he had restored, through the profits of salad greenbacks, so doesn't that make it all worth it? Good point, and maybe so, but do the ends justify the means? If dapl builds a park on the rez with the profits of an oil leak, is that worth it? I guess planting some Lettuce isn't exactly comparable with planting a pipeline, but the native welders on the crew were making the same justifications, as the end of clean water was delivered by their own hands.

But I didn't sign up for this, so the little bits I helped were no big deal, and with my no money/no agriculture lifeway, you'd have a hard time paying me enough to be a farmhand. Farmer had been forewarned of my fiscal policies, he said puzzlingly, "and let me get this straight, you don't do... money?"

Um, yup, that's pretty much it. And it felt so great to have a supportive family that understood me enough to help facilitate my beliefs. The capitalist farmer didn't quite get it though, why would anyone not want money, it's his very favorite thing, but he was more than happy to play along with our scheme once he saw the work I was willing to do for 'free.' Bob had contracted the job, I was just helping my brother on a project that required a ninja nailer. I was assisting him for absolutely zero dinero, and Bob would make twice as much as your average roof raiser. Then he could pass the bucks to Dean, and I'd get away scot-free. A little contrived maybe, but it kept me from even seeing any money, and this one negotiation meeting was the only one that I had to pretend to care about. Plus, Bob really was worth twice the going rate.

*******

Then we got hit with a slight change of plans, Farmer also ran a hardwood floor restoration business on the side, and a gig came up, one that could fund the barn project, and we had just passed my one month deadline of decisions, so I got on board. We geared up in the a.m. and popped down to the lettuce patch to help our cohort for a few minutes, and on the way to the job site, Farmer remarked at how amazed he was to see the fluidity with which we worked as a team. We had seemed to seamlessly follow her lead as she became temporary leader, just as we would have done with Bob on the roof, or me in the kitchen.

We are a tribe. We don't have a chief, not a permanent one anyway, we are liquid like the Earth and able to adapt to any situation. Because of our openness to change and our non-existent power struggle, we have the ultimate strength to excel at any task we're handed. We don't force ourselves to choose some president of our club and then follow them down the Rabbit holes of no experience, we just work together and listen to whoever naturally falls into the lead. Perhaps there are differing schools of thought sometimes, but an open communication policy and willingness to listen, generally lead to a compromise with the best of both worlds building the brightest future. And Bob said, "Yeah, after you've pulled each other out of the clouds of teargas, you can do pretty much anything together."

That one stopped Farmer dead in his tracks. He already knew where we had all met, it was no surprise that we had served on the same frontline against the militarized police, but his disturbed reaction was a little off-putting, to me at least. "I'm sorry guys, I just can't, I just can't think about that, I just can't, I'm sorry."

What? This miracle crew that you just can't stop raving about, running your garden, your floor, and putting a roof over your head, and you can't even acknowledge the single most important event in any of our lives? You'd rather put your head in the sand like the rest of america, than have a human conversation with the first-handed people in front of you, those who have dedicated their lives to stopping the armed corporate takeover of your country?

You don't have to applaud me, you don't even have to agree with me, we could debate the logistics and ethics of a life without oil all day. But this unwillingness to even spend a drop of thought on the reality of what is becoming of the world around us, and to pretend that the evils we've personally witnessed don't exist, and to blatantly ignore the fact that we have suffered pain and trauma at the hand of your government, while you would obviously prefer to forget the cost of doing business as you blindly perpetuate further oppression... It was the most disrespected I've felt since I was back in that cloud of teargas.

And it's a testament to the pulse of america. They'd rather just not know what goes into their low prices. Of oil, or food, or chinese handicrafts, or prison cell phones, don't ask, don't tell, and don't listen when spoken to. It is true, it is easier to simply stay asleep, to just keep on grinding away and pretend that nothing is wrong, to continue to reap the benefits of the privileged and not worry about who died to make you king. If everyone woke up today, it would be super simple to fix it all, but it's simply too easy to remain plugged in. Too convenient. And while you may think that you are not personally responsible and that you live in a good way, just consider that staying in bed while people are suffering in your fenced-in backyard, is the worst greed of them all.

Pretending to have peace of mind as you ignore the sacrifices of those fighting for peace on Earth... Selfishly thinking you can buy our lifeforce to turn a profit, but not pay attention to who we really are... You wanna know how we can work so well together? It's because we are the defenders of the sacred, and we have given our lives to protect yours. We don't do it for praise or commendation, we don't do it because it's easy or fun, we don't do it because we enjoy being shot by the national guards of your sacred capitalism, and we damn sure don't do it for money.

*******

I kept all that in though, for Bob's job security really, and he said something like, "It's like his no money thing, we don't even blink an eye, we get it, and we'll do anything we can to support him on his path." Again, farmerman was perplexed, "I thought everyone loved money. How do you even survive in this world?"

Well, I follow where my heart leads me, not my wallet, and I do as many good things for people as I can, for free, and the universe seems to provide anything I could ever need, just when I need it, and far more. I've given up most conveniences, like a phone, or a car, or private property, or any of those other things that tether you to the confinement of the grid. And I've been to the frontline of capitalism's grip on humanity, I've seen the destruction perpetrated in the name of money, I've seen the evils of its influence, and I've seen good innocent people become pawns for the corporations who blatantly choose profit over life.

"Yeah, but I think money can be used for good too." Most certainly. We wouldn't have been able to stand as strong as we did without the backing of those who couldn't be there. And many of those that did make it out, still emptied their pockets to fund the revolution. Or even this money that Bob's working for here, it's directly supporting a community of those committed to saving the planet. I personally know that we don't need it in our lives, all of that other stuff is perfectly possible without a wallet full of litter, but that doesn't negate the fact that people are capable of using it towards the greater good. "Yeah, like what I do, I provide a good tasting healthy product to the people, at a fair price."

Uh, sure, although I see it as you holding a piece of the planet hostage, as you enslave my plant brothers, and remove vital energy from the circle of life that you've fenced out of your 'property.' And then burning up oil to deliver your good tasting greens to fancy restaurants, that only the elite are privileged enough to be able to afford.

And maybe they weren't destined for five-star eateries, but if you are able to walk into a restaurant and pull paper out of your pocket to buy clean food in a worldwide food desert, you are most certainly one of the elite. How many live outside of your delivery range of nutrition? And how many live next door, but can only afford to eat from the bottom shelf of the food bank? Or live on the rez and watch the vitality of the land dry up as it is oiled down, and are left to survive on the scraps swept up off of the monsanto factory floor? If you were growing salads and dishing them out to the homeless, then I'd see your point, but selling a piece of the planet's community food supply to middle-class white people, is far from humanitarian. And I'm not even a humanitarian, I'm a planetarian, and your money is no good in the circle that I am a part of.

*******

And on that bank note, we arrived at the oceanfront house that we were working at. It was cool to be near the beach, but also a clue that we were just empowering more elites. They probably didn't even live here, I think it was a vacation rental, an investment into 'property' that displaced nature, to profit from the other elites who could afford to take vacations. But at least I didn't have too much dilemma with the job itself, we were scraping linoleum and glue from the hardwood floor and bringing it back to life. So, maybe the trees would never actually be resurrected, but we would restore the glimmer of the beauty ingrained in the dead bodies of my fallen brothers.

And I do think that fine woodworking is beautiful. The internal cellular structure of trees is astonishing when cut in certain ways, the incredible diversity among species is boundless, and I really do love a good swirly burl. And detailed craftsmanship takes it to an entirely new level. I am personally a fairly experienced woodworker, and know that there is a way to keep it in our lives in a good way. Certainly better than replacing it with permanent plastics.

I didn't clue Farmer in, but I bet I was the most overqualified personnel that he'd ever had scraping floors. I knew intimacies of hardwood floor production that he could only imagine. My dad is the country's leading expert of the industrial equipment used by millwork manufacturers, so I grew up cleaning parts and running lumber from sawmill to installation. Even went on a mission to eastern europe to empower the impoverished to export their Elms.

Then I trained under him and gained enough knowledge of industrial woodworking, to be hired by his competition, money money money, where I created the service department of one of the largest industrial woodworking supply houses in the nation. I was friends with industry experts from years of tradeshows, I tested new products for vendors, I knew the intricacies of the angles used to cut particular species at particular speeds, but I'm working on humility, plus, I'd kinda rather just scrape the floor and zen out.

I had lived most of my life funded by the very industry responsible for the clearcutting of america. I never heard word one about sustainable logging practices, just the price per board foot. We weren't on the logging end of it, so there was no moral dilemma once a truck showed up with a stack of lumber, whose origin we'll assume was some happy little tree farm. We merely facilitated the manufacturing process, the three-phase powered, oil-infused equipment, that required plastics and metal mining in order to produce your purely decorative crown moulding.

Sure, it's pretty, a twelve inch piece of curves and angles to accent the home of someone who can afford to splurge, but the bigger the board, the bigger the tree that had to die to make it. And the efficiency experts ran hundreds of thousands of feet at a time, underpaid factory workers who are in constant danger of amputation, but it's the only job in town.

And what's the harm, it's not like they had to cut the big Oak out of their front yard, the one that was left for decoration as they cut down the rest of her family to make room for yours. We cut it from some other faraway land and imported it, so we didn't have to see the devastation left in our wake, and this division of labor taken to such extremes has reduced our skillsets to nil, as it enabled the plausible deniability that allows humanity to destroy any chance that they have for survival. For money.

Explain to me the rationalization of killing a living being to decorate your ceiling. Or to frame the pictures of your soul. At least the floor serves a purpose, even if it is just the permanent displacement of ever having to touch your feet to the dirty ground.

Personally, I think we should not kill a tree unless we are going to eat it, go ahead and have fun with that one, though Pine Trees are actually quite edible and nutritious. I think that had we not eradicated the massive forests, that we would have plenty of naturally fallen wood to work to our heart's content. And to burn. It seems improbable with today's young and fragile woodlines, but just as with the food supply, if we once again hold sacred every drop of life on Earth, it will seem ridiculous to needlessly murder in the name of human superiority.

*******

Wood is a powerful tool, easily shapable into any mold, and its natural decomposition cycle has a built-in promise of impermanence. We can't try to fight its path of dissolving into the future, we certainly didn't question its disappearance from the present, and we just simply must realize that we don't need near as much of it as the woodworking industry demands. It is only because of profit, that it is an unquestioned practice to adorn our lives with non-functional flourishes of flora.

A tipi has no wood paneled interior, or door jams, or window casings, or crown moulding, or floor, or chairs to break the spinal alignment of the empire's backbone. A temporary home requires no siding, or framing, or a roof, and once your wood consumption is reduced to a bowl and a pair of chopsticks, your burden to carry becomes far lighter, as you walk across the energizing surface of your infinite home.

Fine woodwork can be art, and art can be prayer, and prayer can power the regrowth of our planet. If you personally walk the woods and find the piece to which your heart is drawn, and leave a little Tobacco as you thank Unci Maka, then spend the time and energy to put your hand-powered heart vibrations into the work of art as you remove the sawdust, that is how you carve a prayer. And as you give this gift away to the person who compels your selfless heartstrings the most, that energy can be felt, and that bowl will be held sacred, and we will no longer have need for paper plates at our protest picnics.

We can end the destruction of our forests, but it will require the destruction of our privilege, and we must once again remember that the rest of the planet has as much right to live as we do. We are not in charge. We are not superior. We are not even the tallest kids in class. But we are all related, and we have a duty to our family to restore balance to our home, and all those who refuse to comply, will soon find themselves without one. It's up to each of us to discover what it means to live in a good way, to follow our hearts as we find purpose in life. My path is my route alone, but I pray that it will inspire in you a desire to begin your own journey into this incredible world of which we are all a part. Aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

Flowers are a most wondrous creation. They birth fruit, as stars birth galaxies. A field of explosion, as supernovas seed the universe.

Flowers are the fireworks of the soul. They burst with vibrations of color and smell, touch and taste, and if you take time to listen to the Roses, you will hear the reverberations of love from within.

Flowers are most fleeting in nature. They do not dwell in this realm for long. Their concentrated energy must be appreciated in the moment, they offer no guarantee of tomorrow.

Flowers are nature's finest art. Their galleries attract both Birds and Bees, as their seeds are spread into the world. Inspirations of life dispersed, like prayers into the wind.

The flowers of the future are already packed for flight. When the time comes for action, the puzzles of their composition will bloom into their destined place among the stars. They are just one in a sea of complexity, though closer inspection reveals no shortage of miracle among their depth. This mosaic of life is composed by the most vibrant of light, and only through a unified vision of tomorrow, will we see our dreams manifest into reality.

*******

Speaking of flowers, I was on the hook to make frybread again, it's not exactly the healthiest of snackatizers, but it's just so darn good. Would certainly be nice to come up with a gluten-free edition, guess someone should probably get to work on the Dandelion alternative at some point.

Most of what we were eating wasn't that good for us really, some world class salad, but nothing growing on the commune was in season yet, so it was all colonized calories, and not the top shelves of the elite either. And here I am writing a book about the destructions of cattle farms, and about eating as local as possible, and denouncing all of colonization, yet still swimming in its spoils.

Each day of writing developed my own food philosophies further. I was starting to feel conflicted about living this way, I'd felt it back in asheville too, and now it was creeping in again as dilemma occupied my mind. And I was feeling a little amiss that prayer was on the back burner here, it was still burning in me, but it was a bit upsetting to see a stronger focus on beer runs than the lodge. And I was craving more songs, and someone to sing with, I'd made a promise to Randy and I intended on keeping it.

And now this job thing, it was rough. I didn't mind the work, I actually enjoyed the monotony as it gave me a chance to think about life. About what's important to me. I already have a pretty good idea what's what, including my beliefs on paying rent to sleep on my own planet, and although I might have had some less-than-lease deal worked out, that was just semantics, and I knew it. Any way I looked at it, at the very least, I was bending my morals to be able to live here, and that doesn't sound like the me that I know.

And also not sounding like me, was when I'd return home tired and sore from backbreaking labor, and be too tired to play. No energy for stunts. No projects, maybe still a little food, and then barely enough gusto to squeak out a few pages. I feel in my heart that writing is how I can affect change in the world, one way at least, it is on my path, not becoming an unconscious cog in the capitalism machine. And the kid, this job was drastically affecting our relationship, and his mom's sanity, and it was making me sick to see myself falling victim to the societal traps that I have dedicated my life to dismantling.

How can I tell you that there's another way, when I can't even find it at a commune full of water protectors? And even without money, I still had to be the ears for the venting of financial woes, you're really talking to the wrong guy here, but we can go sweat if you want to. I even had a convo about, "Well, I really have to start thinking about retirement soon." What? Dude, this world out here ain't gonna last that long, I'd worry about armageddon before retirement. JK, don't worry, it does no good, it's going to be a beautiful time, definitely worth waking up for.

But the kicker was when Farmer wanted to change up the plan a bit, "Oh, what do you guys care what you're doing, money's money, right? And hell, you're not even getting paid anyway."

Why good sir, I do believe you've misconstrued the situation. My lack of selling out does not correlate to a worthlessness of my time, or in any way mean that I am willing to do "whatever." It is quite the opposite, in fact. You do not own my time, you have not purchased my lifeforce, I will only do what my heart wants of me and no amount of money will change that. The fact that you're not paying me, does not mean that my energy has no value, it means that it has more value than you'll ever be able to understand. My life is sacred, like the waters of the Earth, and the sacred is not for sale.

This situation wasn't working. Sure, I'd be caught up on rent for a while, but it wasn't even just that, though that was certainly a big one. I could leave whenever I wanted, I have no fear of hitchhiking and I can carry everything I own, I'd already received other invites, just one problem... It'd be too hard to leave the kid, though we'd hardly even seen each other this week. Obviously there was only one thing to do, so I did it, long and hard. I prayed for better food and more songs and a decolonized existence focused on prayer.

Unci Maka, please, help me, omakiya yo, please help me to find a deeper connection with you. As I write about these things and they grow inside me, I'm understanding the importance of the vibrations that I surround myself with. Please help me to support my family here, but please help me to evolve my own growth as well. I cannot continue to live a contradictory life of what I believe and how I behave, please help me to take the next step of my journey in a good way.

And the next day, a water protector stopped by on his way through the state, as he was heading directly to the small town in virginia where I began this journey, so many pages ago.

*******

Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to hop in the car with you brother. He was all about it, and he was gonna end up staying a couple of days, so I had some time to decide. To pray on it. To scrape floors on it. And every time, I landed on the same conclusion, the farm would answer every single thing I'd been praying about. It would be tough to leave, but a day of praying convinced me that it was where the heart had me going, and I don't question that one.

I can only assume that me leaving the commune, will somehow help my family to grow stronger. Maybe without me there, they will come together in a new way, become a tribe, maybe work together to build the lodge and find a more sacred connection through ceremony, remember my walk and decide to pray instead of drink, or learn a song, or get on the floor and share heart vibrations with the future of our planet.

Everyone who is in this movement, is here for a reason, and that is even more true for the children. I have been blessed to have built strong connections with tomorrow's superheroes, and I do not hold this honor lightly. It makes me sad to leave, but I know with every vibration in my heart, that I will see you soon, and we will both be stronger versions of who we are now. And at dinner, I made the announcement, surprised but supportive, even those who might struggle the most. And later that night, I saw them come together and become a tribe in a new way, and then we left in the morning.

As we pulled away, I remembered a close sister's comment about her own eastward travel, "You know, as good as it feels here, I bet we're supposed to be out there when it happens. We know that we have an energetic magnetism to each other, so we'll find us, no matter what, but if we are already together, then we might just stay here by ourselves. I think we'll be spread all around, that way we can get the word out, and help along those who are ready when it's time to bring the future back together." Makes sense. It's almost time. Find a water protector and don't leave their side.

*******

This was gonna be such a great road trip, I could already tell, plus, in the toksa gift exchange, we were presented with some bacon, and John was a vegetarian, don't mind if I do. And we were camping, for free, in national forests along the way. No extended driving days, and warm meals on the fire most nights and mornings. Neither of us was in a hurry, so we were free to live in the now. And the deepest philosophical conversations about food ethics and stuff, and fences, and plans to repair the future, and plans to resist the present, but not the now.

Within the first minute on the road, it was obvious that I had taken the right fork, and it only became more apparent with every passing day. Had I stayed, I would certainly have had many good times and continued to do good work, but looking back at the personal growth I've manifested in the short time since that moment, I am once again in awe of the mysteries of the universe. I could have fought this change, this unknown, as I clung onto a fleeting moment in time. I could have chosen to stay, against my heart's will, but it's a bit tougher to swim up river in the cosmic stream of consciousness. You gotta go with the flow, nothing lasts in this world, and once you've unlocked yourself from the concept of forever, you will be free to experience eternity with every breath you take.

Couldn't get too caught up on the path ahead either, we'd loosely plan a target destination, and an idea of how to get there, but we'd generally end up off course and be pushed to adapt our trajectory. No turning around and forcing a route that wasn't in the cards, there might have been a reason we bypassed the fast lane, and our symbiotic relationship of laid back attitudes, kept us from ever doubting our place in this world. We were never lost, didn't know where we were sometimes, but we always reemerged at the most convenient of locations.

Like the first national forest we arrived in, snow covered camping and plenty of dry wood to gather, just like old times, except for the dry wood part. It's not a highly publicized policy, but it's free and clear to camp on the side of any access road in our national forest system. You may stay there for up to fourteen days after they find you, so get tucked in tight, and then you can simply move to a new spot and set back up. Only nomads need apply. Can't have some permanent scar popping up next to our nice new paved road, that'd be absurd. The Wind Cave resistance camp was positioned off-site, but they had smaller teams set up for their two week tours of duty nearby the action, just vacationing, nothing to see here, but we see you.

We had a great first night, soup and quinoa on the fire, guitar and indian songs, and we were pretty sure that no one was around for miles as we filled the hills with love vibrations. Somehow I'd forgotten my cup again, and had no spoon, but we're family, though I haven't had all of my shots. We pulled out his weather radio, just to see how far out we were, and only found static as we monitored the FM frequencies permeating our dreams. Just because they're invisible, doesn't mean they're not real, or that they're not affecting your brain circuitry. Sure, radio waves have been circulating our planet for years, but those years have also seen some of the worst traumas of our time.

I can't do too much to stop the radio chatter, except maybe invent the internet, but once it fizzles out on its own, people will once again remember the magic of making live music. It vibrates your soul, quite literally. In the complex harmonies of an intricate orchestration, you can truly feel the mechanics of universal fabrication. You can listen to a recording, a captured vibration of essence, a digitized reconstruction of something that used to be real, but when you are in the frequency field of a live performance, you are an active participant in the swells of energetic notation.

It happens at jam shows all the time, the improvising band plays to the crowd, they interact with the collective energy and feed into the audience's vibrational state. Ask any deadhead, there is truly something cosmic going on between the players and the crowd, a ball of blue light as Garcia described it, and I'd imagine it's even more intense when they're both tapped into the same drop of inspiration. Music can heal, music can inspire, music can bring the people together, one great rock show can change the world. And just imagine if it was in-tune with the universe. 432 or bust.

And I'm thinking that festivals might be a good place to recruit for the movement. We don't want to turn a resistance camp into a party, but those partiers are already outliers of the system, they already understand the energetic impact of vibration, and they like to camp. They are a community, and before Standing Rock, that's where you would have found me. It seems a little worrisome to have a jobfair at a ragefest, but it's the most concentrated band of dirt hippies you're gonna find around. It's worth a shot I think, plus, we can write it off as a business expense.

Good thing too, cause the next night brought us to a state park, who wanted to charge rent. But we are the rebel alliance, you can't catch us that easily, plus, it was definitely the off-season. A foot of snow everywhere, no one around, it was already getting dark, I think we'll chance it.

Postings about not collecting firewood, they didn't want campers going off trail and disturbing the ecosystems between pavement, or they just wanted to sell bundles and tanks at the gate. I appreciate their sentiment of conservation, but with our personal commitments to traceless living, I felt pretty good about grabbing a few fallen limbs. And we had to have a fire, how else could we make fresh Corn tortillas for our Rice and Beans? Rolled them out right there on the picnic table, definitely a nice skill for the toolbox, not quite there yet, but by the end of the trip we had it pretty down.

*******

As we drove between cornfields and rerouted Cow creeks full of feces, I convinced John of the illegitimacy of fences. He was already anti-confinement of the animal nation, but now he was starting to see the true destruction of the blockades of natural flow. By the end of the day, he was signed up for my fence removal crew, so we went ahead and got a jump start on the planning of the future world. It's gonna be a lot of cleanup, an unfathomable amount really, overwhelming to think about it all, so we just thought about it little bits at a time.

Humans are good at the division of labor, so we'll all just have to do our own parts, and everything will work out just fine. Like the fence team, I'd been imagining a post-apocalyptic walking tour as we roll it up into piles along the decaying road, but if people wake up in time, maybe we could get a more efficient system of decivilization figured out.

We have an alternatively powered vehicle with a big reel to wind the fence up on, maybe even a manual transmission pump cart like the railroad used, but probably just a frybread oil conversion. As we move along, cutting the ties of agriculture, we just wind up the reusable metal, and leave it like hay bales along the way for the next crew to collect. Or to melt. Or even our nomadic convoy could include a foundry, we could just feed the wire directly into the melting pot and mold fancy new innovations, like more fence cutting equipment. The fences are turned into their own downfall of exponential deconstruction, and once we're done, we can melt all of that down into some kind of revolutionary thingamabob. We already live inside a machine built to build machine building machines, so all we have to do is flip the switch and reverse the conveyor before we all fall into the fire.

And we're picking up trash along the way, so let's melt the aluminum cans on the spot, even a basic campfire can handle that one. In fact, we could put that plan into motion tonight. We'd collected some trash earlier in the day, so John melted the cans into a blob of twice baked raw material. If we'd have had a mold, we could have been making trinkets along the way.

Doodads are cool and all, but we really need something useful to come out of this resurgence, something that we could use a lot of, no matter where the crew is at, or that could be left with the wire reels for pick-up. I had a few ideas, but I liked his the best, arrowheads. With all the wild Cows running around, we'd always need them. Easy to mold, easy to sharpen, lightweight, I just wonder if that small amount of aluminum touching your food is as toxic as cooking with it. Doubt it.

*******

Aluminum is hazardous to your health. It's categorized as a neurotoxin, just like its byproduct fluoride, and cooking in it is detrimental to your brain. The lightest of the heavy metals becomes permanently trapped in your system, at least until you begin to purge it through a strict Onion and Dandelion regiment. All of this is already scientifically known, though you can still purchase the poisons, just like the toxicity of the deodorant and baking powder that reynold's wrapped up in some fancy marketing and called it good. They somehow claim that it is the top of the line for the top chef, when in actuality, it is the asbestos of cookware.

Well, actually that might be teflon, created by our old pals dupont. It causes polymer fume fever, has extensively been shown to kill birds, and once you ingest the defoliating particles, it remains forever trapped in 99.7% of america's bloodstreams, where it will be passed on to the next 25 generations of offspring with progressively shorter lifespans. You are supposed to be what you eat, not what you cook on.

So we heated up the cast iron, this time in a national grassland, didn't even know that was a thing, assumed we could stay rent free, and even if they gave us a hard time, I could always tell them it was my birthday. Cause it was. I mean, tomorrow was, but today was a good day to die. They'd been all excited about throwing me a party at the commune, but I'm more of an alone in the woods, drop on my knees birthday kinda guy, at least if a tipsy party scene is the alternative. But turns out I wouldn't make it anyway, so I hope they had that little shindig after all.

We weren't on a schedule or a particular route, but we knew we wanted to be somewhere spectacular for my birthday, and we knew that we were gonna camp at Standing Rock for John's first visit back. I was a regular by this point, so it sure would be neat to camp in Rosebud for the big day. And make pizza.

That did it, he was sold, campfire pizza would be the ultimate deja vu, as frontline friends were becoming brothers. We drove through mobridge, SD, just like my very first trip to camp, stopped into the same farm supply store, and heard about the big snowstorm expected to hit tonight. Impending doom, get out while you still can, all hippies go home. Eh, we'd risk it. Now that would be the ultimate deja vu.

*******

Once we landed and he got through the surreal sensation of returning home, we took a walking tour up to Sacred Stone, where he'd spent a bit of time while I was pinned down in the kitchen. I tried calling mom from my elevated state, but no go, guess I'll have to hike to facebook hill later on, woah, this really is a time loop. We figured we could camp where I had with the Erenbrooks, back in the cut a bit, so we gathered wood and I went to pray. Nowhere special, not anymore than everywhere else around, it was just where I happened to be when a wave of gratitude rolled over me, as I whispered prayer songs and carried wood. I pulled out some Tobacco, and offered it to the ground beneath a Cedar Tree. Even though I'd prayed at camp before, about the same old grateful gratitude thank you thank you thank yous, I still got taken to a different place.

Just another day maybe, but it being my birthday gave pause to reflect on the last year. It began on a droplet of ocean as I sat alone on a south carolina beach, reflecting then, about the previous year from LA to Standing Rock, and wondering what could possibly be next. I was beginning to feel this growing understanding of the Plant Nation, I could visualize the way the trees at the park were rooted in dualistic harmony, or maybe it was just a giant Carrot.

But as I write this, I now can see the transfer of energy taking place, as the Sun rays are captured above, and the vibrations of Earthly minerals below, and through the conduit of water, they manifest the DNA that composes the cell growth of life. It's right there, plain as day, plants need three things to grow, two of them are vibrations, and the other is an excellent conductor of electricity, and the resulting product is a double-helixed spiral shooting up out of the ground as it reconvenes with unity.

Of course the Sun's radiation affects our DNA, it is what propels it, even if it is just baby steps that you'd never notice from within the generation gap. And of course what we eat affects that, that's the main way we take in solar rays, I can only absorb so many before I burn out here on the sand. Plants are connected to sky and Earth, we are physically disconnected from both, it is imperative to eat as pure as possible if you plan on getting the updated itinerary of tomorrow's events.

*******

Doubt there'll be much of a public service announcement on the overcompressed radio dials of your local corporate affiliate, not when every major media conglomerate is represented in the Bilderburg Group, and their board members are all industry insiders. Not that we're still listening anyway, they've been systematically dumbing down our ability to play it by ear, and our hell-bound spiral of convenience over quality has flattened the heartbeat of our internal drum. The vibrational assault on our physical bodies, through the enclosing field of frequency disruption, is not limited to the barrage of disharmony broadcast in these wide nets of entanglement. They have simultaneously reduced our quality of life from a vibrant thing, to this flatlining dystopia, of which we can no longer perceive a way out.

This numbing of life vibration goes unnoticed across the board, even cheered on as it trades genuine experience for contrivial convenience. Let's tune the dial to the audio spectrum of universal vibration, it's a bit easier to visualize once you hear where I'm going with this, plus, I have enough sound advice to almost convince you that I know what I'm talking about. Once you begin to hear what I'm saying, you'll be able to see the same vibrational dampening in every aspect of your sensory perception. And... go.

So, a while back we discussed the subtraction of synthetic waveforms, and the enlightening parallels of darkening one's frequency reception. Another common model of modern synthesizer, is one that uses 'additive synthesis', and as the name would suggest, instead of removing elements from a pure sine wave, it builds a clear complexion by summing together a multitude of pure sine waves. And this is no new concept of convenience, this is literally the composure held by the entire known universe, but we'll stick with the sonic space of sound, for now.

Every sound in the entire known universe is composed by combinations of pure sine waves. Without exception. They interact with each other and create new elements of the cosmic wave. Your vocal cords produce a mouthful, which then collaborate to project your unique voice of change, and the entirety of your surrounding environmental impact culminates with the infinite intricacies of your perceivable present moment. All sine waves.

A visual representation of your audio streaming consciousness, will look nothing like a sine wave. It will still exhibit up and down cycles of energy, but instead of the smooth parabolas of complete symmetry, it will appear to be an erratic squiggly line. However, it is no randomly generated noise cannon, it is simply the complex totality of billions of simultaneous sine waves, as they morph together at their exact point of impact. Your eardrum. Who then rattles the order off to your brain, and then you are free to selectively block whatever nonsense I'm on about this time.

So we're all made of sine waves, or maybe we're made of stars, but they're made of sine waves too, so let's move on. And just like the swirls of fingerprints and DNA, this customized construct of sine waves is unique to you, a one-of-a-kind vibrating energy being, experiencing a personal perspective of the greater vibrational field of universal consciousness. And you are voice activated, at least until you decide to write it down instead.

Every piece of this greater cosmic song, is in itself an intricate squiggle, an infinitely detailed thread woven into the all-star ensemble of sonic space funk. So with such a mind-melting solo, you'd probably want to hear it in person, get your undistorted vibrations directly from the source. But wouldn't it sure be convenient to press our permanence onto the mass-marketed mainstream, to sell them a dumbed-down version of what they could already have at home for free, and now you can purchase your vibrations from a store who lets you order your prereleased input before it's even touring season. It won't be as high of quality as the original production, but it will still be palatable, and no one will even notice that it's not actually music, but just a wax coated impostor clogging the earwaves.

The commoditization of human vibrations didn't begin with the vinyl record, and those earliest days of colonial invention may not have been of pure malintent. Though, it was around the same time that the powers-that-be, elected to spread the grid of inefficient yet commoditizable AC electricity, instead of Tesla's freely given DC superpower system. Or how the future of energy conglomeration could see that alcohol-fueled roadrage and the acceleration of hemp oil, wouldn't fill anyone's pockets, so they prohibited their popularity at the pump. Or how essentially every 'advance' of techno music was a mere trade-off of quantity over quality, as they convinced us that we couldn't live without more, and now they're selling your weakened vibration by the pound.

I probably sound like a broken record though, so let's see if I can give you something that you haven't already heard, like maybe some ear-candy to refine your musical tastebuds. A vinyl disc is actually a fairly decent representation of what life is supposed to sound like, it remains an analog waveform as it is etched into a genuine piece of the material world, but it is far from spinning a complete web of vibratory connection. While it captures an actual soundwave out of thin air, instead of the ones and zeroes that zigzag us into the future, it can playback only a stationary perspective of a moving moment, and it contains only a fraction of the dynamic range experienced by those participating in the real world.

'Dynamic range' is a measure of musical depth, and describes the gamut of amplitudes experienced by our wavering vibration. The ups and downs from the fullest chorus to the slightest whisper, and every minuscule volume variation in-between, kinda like the moment-to-moment details of what it's all about. But the infinitely indescribable experience of this musical magic, cannot be contained in the material of limitation, so the engineer of manipulation must compress the clarity of universal audio, as they package it for the commercialization of convenience.

A rack-mounted 'compressor' is used to reduce the dynamic range of the incoming vibration. It squeezes the life out of the melody, forces compliance among the harmonic spectrum, and it locks the entire chorus into the border walls of the groove. The flattening of our frontline is a clear assault on the dynamics of diversity, the knobs of the machine clearly define the actions of 'attack' and 'release', the parameters that mark the time-based sentence of systematic suppression.

So now we've made a permanently printed record of a particular moment in time and space, some other 'now', except that now, the vibe simply isn't as vibrant as it once was. The squiggles of experience have been rounded to the least common denominator, as the curvy rollercoaster of Earthly emotion is straightened out and compressed into compliance, just like the life-numbing side-effects of phactory pharmaceuticals. And since the bayer drug cartel just bought the monsanto mafia, it should be easy to draw the parallels of genetic degradation, as we spiral through the downsizing of universal experience.

The next packaging of profit found the convenience of the cassette, my first of which was ironically written by the presidents of the united states that I'm attempting to unite against, and the next was an even more jagged pill to swallow. A record number of tunes, crammed into a little piece of plastic, still kinda analog, though all sorts of noise gets introduced along the way. But now you can mindlessly drive along your way, as the convenience of your commute keeps you from ever considering a life outside of the jambox.

Then cds come along, way more convenient now that you can play your daily soundtrack on repeat, which seems to align with the monotony of clocking-in. We've now begun the digitization of the human experience, no longer an actual vibration, we have now devolved into ingesting only best-guess replicas of the real thing. We are being fed a line of hacked zigzag creation code, and the turned tables of ones and zeroes, have clearly muddied the waves of convenience over quality.

And as for the streamlined format of flatlined mp3s... geezus. If it's all you know, then you might never notice, but any good listener will tell you that your daily download is an obvious ripoff of reverberation. An echo of the original tune, compressed into a tiny file drawer of our itunes card catalog, as we condense the cubicles of our overpopulated hard drives. The conversion to mp3 uses an algorithm that systematically determines the least valuable variances of vibration, it then removes these unwanted members of society, as it replaces them with the static of white noise. The machine is using numbers and letters and science, to convert us into numbers and letters and science, and we only applaud the growth of their online inventory.

You'd think that the advance of technology would bring higher quality to the end user, but that has never been the case, and now the compression of our waveform has reached a new low. The record domesticated our intake, the tape homogenized it, the cd promised the progress of processor power, and the mp3 delivers a genetic modification as it tampers with the very core of the spiral's code. And as our bodies are subjected to these weakened vibrations, our sensory organs begin devolving, as we adapt to perceiving a fractionated portion of the vibratory spectrum.

From the technocolors of our photographic memory, to the limited wavelengths of LED lightening, to the vibrations of our Earth Mother herself, our downhill battle of technologic convenience has only progressed the prison camp of the patriarch. The electric fence is closing in on us, and the domestication of our dynamic range is only making us more complacent with the compliance of the human farm. They are desperately attempting to subdue our revolution, as they capture our attention and imprison our spirits, because they know that we are preparing to break free of the cage altogether.

*******

Domestication dampens the dynamic range of your food's vibration. For you non-sound-geeks who couldn't make any sense out of that last sixteen bits, that means that it makes it not as good, and that goes for both plants and animals. The closer to nature you eat, the better, it's the highest level of upward spiraling evolution possible, the latest greatest newest genetic code around. And if you can't eat the wild thornberries, then at least your food should. Just like how domesticated seeds stopped natural selection, ensuring that even sick Cows breed, only breeds mediocrity. So then feeding them a low vibration/high volume genetically poisoned Corn diet, simply wrecks any chance of getting any weather updates. Hmm, does seem a little curious that the aluminum-canned corned beef brand of E.Coli, is the USDAs top choice.

They want us sick and desperate, not just the USDA, but the entire system of control. We're unarguably addicted to agriculture, even you're having a hard time believing that my zen garden is a real thing. Agriculture makes us sick, that's well known throughout the empire's history, but it makes money, and power, and it's even more convenient than teflon.

Plus, it creates demand for western medicine, which only further dampens the life vibration of humanity, as it obscures the light side of the soul. And while you're at the grocery store grabbing your latest prescription of complacency, might as well grab a few processed packages to pop in the microwave tonight, as you ingest the fictional frequencies of reality tv. Or just import the monosodium gluten of chinese take-out, as you put your cell phone to your ear, while it sucks in the wifi that was jamming out to all those misnumbered FM frequencies.

We are vibrational beings, living in a complex web of anti-vibrational matters. This is not by mere coincidence, it is of intelligent design, and the web designers who are playing God with the health of humanity, have modeled themselves after the version who is a jealous, warmongering, for-profit, egotistical white man. They have used the conditioning of colonization to convince us that this sick and broken life of chaotic disconnection, is normal. We are natural born sinners, destined to a thorny world of destruction, and the only option is to quietly ride it out until the wheels fall off.

No worries though, as long as you blindly adhere to the doctors of indoctrination, and bring your rent check in every sunday, you'll get to go to the invisible land of the gods as a reward for demolishing an entire week of their finest work. Only problem is, the invisible place those guys are talking about, is overheated from the eternal flame of the patriarchy.

*******

This top-down trickle of energy disruption, is openly disguised as the socially acceptable pyramid of white male human supremacy, but even they, are merely the enslaved pawns of those who have hijacked the reins of our solar revolution. The white men are not any more free than the rest of the planet, they have simply been given an advantage by our captors, in order to maintain a hierarchy of control over the prison population. They're still locked up, and even more so, as they've become strung out on the most addictive substance in existence. They're more lost than anybody, they've been cut off from all outside communication, and they've been convinced that this illusion of authority is as good as it gets, as they lead the parade down death row.

The netflix binge watcher can see the cogs of the system at play, and they know what must be done to escape the cage, but the characters who have been assured that they are the stars of the show, are unable to hear the screams of this outside perspective. Any observer can see that the only way to break out of this boxed-in television drama, is to unite the entire population and overthrow the powers that be. The cleverly crafted storylines of racial division are written so that this seems an impossibility, and only those who have remained tuned-in throughout the seasons, have the faith in the director that it'll all come together, before the program is canceled prematurely.

It is only through the inmates with privileges that an uprising may occur. They must use their systematic advantages to level the playing field, as they empower the unified movement towards the common goal. It is difficult to give up the scraps of comfort that they've accumulated throughout their sentence, but it is wildly apparent that those commissary conveniences, pale in comparison to the quality of life experienced in the outside world. It is imperative to the character development of the ensemble cast, that relationships of compassion and understanding are built across the separations of skin color. The privileged must realize that they are far more powerful as the symbiotic partners of a completed series of resistance, than just mere perpetrators of their own extended sentence.

The white men of this world must stand up to the oppression of the patriarchy, they are the only ones who get to vote in the rigged race of the elite. It is not their fault that the white hand of their ancestors' God is responsible for the widespread devastation of our planet, they are merely the inheritors of a genetically predisposed skin conditioning, but it is their civic duty to restore the balance of power to the people. And the people must remember that they are not the innocent victims of tyranny, they have happily accepted their roles within the classes that teach us to grab any thread of superiority we can.

If you are american, you live a life of privilege. Even the homeless disabled vets that are looked down on by the cluttered banks of the mainstream, they also experience a life more comfortable than those running for their survival, as our country bombs the targets of our next imported exploitation. Single white females are high among the ranks of the privileged, a black man can become president, and even a mexican transvestite would have more voice than the forgotten race of natural born americans. But even the indians, with all of the hardships we continuously dump as we attempt to bury their way of life, even they are among the privileged of our planet. If you are reading these words, then you have an unfair advantage in life, and it is up to you to use this privilege for the good of the other lives on Earth.

If this message is being transmitted as text across your handheld screen, one that was manufactured with the stolen minerals of a faraway childcare conflict, then you have the power to empower, and any further swipes of facebook are simply a grotesque misappropriation of your inherited privilege. And if you're reading this in print form, then woohoo, I'm gonna be rich, and you're of the upper echelon who has access to books, and enough free time to read the language of oppression. You are the ones capable of compiling the comprehensive knowledge of the empire, and aware of the inner workings of a system that you do not agree with. It is up to you to do something about the words that resonate your being, and any further defeatism, only squanders the glimmer of hope inspired by those leaves of our fallen brothers.

*******

It certainly feels overwhelming to take on the task of saving the world, of uniting humanity in time to save itself, of waking the corners of this fractionated globe and empowering them to once again become one tribe. But we must simply remember that we are the same essence of light, and it is only through our vastly differing experiences up to this point, that we have woven such a diverse assemblage of worldviews. We are each a product of our conditioning, and it is passed down along our bloodlines. Our civilization is built on war and invasion, and that's uncontested even in the most mainstream of history books. Before the conquering of the planet, there were symbiotic tribes across the globe, including those throughout europe.

However it came to be that a self-appointed king wasn't happy with equal opportunity, the waves of homeland invasion swept across the sea of flowering villages, as they erased their inherited tradition and assimilated them into conformity. They were the first broken victims of colonization, and while they were able to survive the takeover with a "can't beat 'em, join 'em" policy, their spirit was still broken, and the conditions in which they raised the next generation, were far from the peace and harmony of memories past. And then their children were even more severed from reality, and then theirs, and our new life of warcrimes kept the community on the defensive, never able to be completely free and loving, but instead cheering on the tough guy mentality of supporting the troops.

We kept the fire burning strong for our warriors, as we forgot about our connection to the liquid Earth, under penalty of death. And as they returned from the frontline with ptsd, there were no longer any healing waters of matriarchal balance. So they stayed broken and hardened from battle, which conditioned their children for the same. And with each generation, the new recruits had experienced less paternal love, less maternal connection, and a deepened burning desire to exact revenge on the rainbow colored enemies of the empire. And this ancestral trauma has been handed down, with compounding interest, to the children of today.

The modern wars of our nation have broken even the most naive of american dreamers. Those with relatives who lived through the depression, have been pounded with worries of scarcity. The grandparents who first experienced nuclear scares, have bred the fear that compels us to bomb them first. The chiseled composure of a world at war, has passed down to each successor a hardened demeanor of being a man and serving your country proudly, even if that means neglecting your family, as you protect them from any evils that would dare challenge your infallible government. They are better off alive and alone, than engulfed in a perpetually blooming love explosion as your heart condition prepares them for peace. And the fear of death ensures that the young ones enlist at first chance, as they blindly follow the most honorable family tradition to the grave.

It has taken millennia to condition our people to become the heartless heathens that we have, we have experienced a far longer past of ancestral trauma than the indians, but we can catch a glimpse of what it must have been like for our defeated ancestors, after just a few generations of forced compliance. We also were made to grow up with murdered elders and missing spirituality, unless your tribe went without a fight. We were pushed into a belief system that offered only subservience, as we paid our pittance to work for the king, who only handed out alcoholism as a reward. Any dwindling bits of connection to the Earth, were pushed underground, as we were commanded to plow them under and provide food for the growing armies. We were the first victims of colonization, and we have been conditioned to believe that the empire is the most righteous game in town, the only game in town, and you would have to be a fool to think that you could ever stop the empire.

So yeah, it does seem a bit overwhelming to try to heal thousands of years of ptsd, but it only takes one generation of reconditioning to reverse the trends of terror. If everyone decided today to prioritize love over fear and peace over war, then the next wave of dreamers wouldn't be destined for defeat, they would know nothing but compassion and a belief in the impossible, and it would then become possible. It's a tall order, but you can do your part with every interaction you encounter, with every soul on Earth, especially those who appear different than you, and most especially the children of tomorrow. And worst case scenario, they'll get a chance to forget about all this civilization mess soon enough.

*******

John and I had already forgotten about it as we planned the cleanup of the future, but we still had cleaning up to do in the present, my birthday present, in fact. After I finished thanking my mom for the last year of growth, I took off to catch up with John as he was picking up the remnants of camp leftovers, and then I saw something metallic buried in the dirt. I unwrapped my birthday gift from the Earth, and now I could add an authentic Standing Rock spoon to my inventory, just what I always needed, right when I needed it, thank you mom. And then I found a cool new feather to add to my hat, what a great birthday, and once again I thanked Unci Maka for the abundance in my life as I felt heartwarmed all over.

In our travels, we were reminded of the north dakota wind, and we found ourselves at the base of the hill to Sacred Stone, completely sheltered as it deflected the biting breeze. We were on the edge of the pond behind camp, and plenty of fallen wood all around, maybe we should just stay here. Except that this wasn't technically part of Rosebud, or Sacred Stone, and there was even a barbed wire fence keeping us detained. Trying to, at least. Presumably keeping cattle in sometimes, or maybe just hippies out, but definitely disrupting the flow of Deer to the water's edge. And then John gave me the best birthday present yet, "Well, we could cut it." Brilliant idea my fine sir.

It wasn't for our sake, we had already climbed through once, but it seemed like the perfect place for my inaugural de-fence plan to take shape, at Standing Rock, on my birthday. We'd have to figure out how to cut it, but he had the perfect pair of compact welding gloves that he'd been unsure why he was even still carrying, until now. And as I suited up, I saw that the section in question was actually a junction point, and was just two ends twisted together, I could easily untie it with just the gloves. And I did.

I unwrapped the wire, and then pulled each end back along the neighboring link as I twisted them into a double helix formation, possibly even inconspicuous enough as to not catch the eye of a passerby. I did the top two, and invited John to finish it off, and we were now officially cutting the fences of the future. No need to philosophize a theoretical plan of hypothesis, I am a current card carrying member of the Standing Rock Fence Cutters Guild, we should have t-shirts by the fall. And as I handed the gloves back to him, he said, "Well, I think you're gonna need those on your travels, aren't you?" Aho, thank you brother. Best birthday ever.

*******

And we still had to make pizza. But no ordinary winter camp pizza would do, it's gotta be epic, gotta bring another dreamed up delicacy to life, and I had been sure it would work ever since the very first time I tried my hand at camp-style cuisine. I was gonna cook it with a single cast iron on the open fire. My confidence assured him that I could pull it off, though he suggested getting the fire going soon, especially with those darkened storm clouds moving in from the south and all. Holy...

I think we're about to get snowed into Standing Rock as I crisp pizzas on the fire, how does this day just keep getting better? I prayed as I collected wood, totally cool with whatever weather you got for us, but it would be really sweet if we could make dinner before it hits. Plus, you know I'm giving you a piece of it. And just like that, the waves of clouds blew over and the sky opened back up, and that was the worst weather we'd see over the course of our ten day trip.

I grabbed a flat stone that I'd seen along the way and used it as one of the rocks ringing the pit. Whipped up the dough and let it rise a bit, sizzled Garlic and Onions, and then fresh Tomatoes as I scratched together some sauce, tossed the dough into the hot pan, it sizzled and crisped, then I threw it on the flat rock and loaded it with sauce, a few veggies, some cheese, covered it with the upside down skillet, and topped it all off with a bed of hot coals. It's gotta work, dutch oven style without the lid, cigarette timer, and voila, the most fantastic fireside pizza, ever. It gets slightly soggy from the steam inside, but I just threw it back in the hot pan and it recrisped in a jiffy. I had just manifested two visions to life within an hour of each other, kinda hoping the rest of that stuff takes a bit longer, for your sake.

We planned on saving some of the two pies, but we couldn't help but help ourselves. Managed to hang onto the Garlic bread we made as a snackatizer, but doubtful that it would make it til morning. If we did. Headlights headed up the road towards us, John was already in his tent as I talked to the fire, they rolled past real slow, dapl, or the proprietor of the fenceline, and here they come back past us, and stopped. Guess I might as well face 'em head on...

Man, it was just a couple of local water protectors looking for a good time. John and I had already been speculating on whether we'd see any or not, certainly would make for a fun stay, multiple manifestation attempts ensued, and it seems that the universe just wouldn't quit. They checked my credentials, I obviously belonged, so they joined our fireside celebration.

John got up, we shared some medicine and Garlic bread, and heroic tales of camp life, and then YellowFeather sang me the most beautiful song in honor of this very special day, and honored I was. I resonated with her heart vibrations, and I will pour my own back into the world. Our personal exchange of selfless giving has brought healing to us both, to Unci Maka, and to who knows how many others along our paths. A gifting economy is the way of the future, it was already the way of the past.

*******

Gifting economies have been around forever, well, maybe not forever, but at least since the land before time. They could hardly even be classified as economies, but within the framework of this language that demands labels, we'll just have to stick with it for now. Often misconstrued with the barter system, and certainly more closely related than with the modern slavery of capital building, but a true giving of heart vibration requires no assumed reciprocity. It would be akin to considering your gift giving on capitalistmas eve, as not a selfless act of generosity, but a mere exchange of currency.

Our culture's mindset of scarcity, provides little room to comprehend why anyone would ever give away something they worked so hard for, discounting taxes and tithes of course. But within a worldview of abundance, sharing the wealth is the obvious mechanism for enriching the lives of all involved.

And we're not talking about walmart gift cards here, the presents of the past were far more personal than the scams of the present. Heartmade trinkets of wood and stone and hide and bone, sacred gifts from the Earth herself, plus there's always the most obvious way to warm a neighbor's heart, food. I bet our friends to the south would love a taste of Maple syrup as we navigate the Maize of cornfields, and without any pressure to retaliate, I'd imagine they'd still insist that we take a few kernels of truth.

Sacred seeds were 'traded' long before the wheat penny extracted a single copperhead, and not only were they gifts of growing abundance, they also offered a leg-up to the exploratory journeys of the vegetative state. Just as we conquered Eden and brought along a pocketful of invaders, domestic travelers facilitated the spread of locally grown gardens.

Seeds were the original gift that kept on giving, at least back before monsanto rendered them all sterile, but there are tons of other ways to appreciate without a single cost incurred. A simple story might seem inconsequential, but when the flow of information unlocks the accumulated wisdom of your ancestors, it suddenly provides far more knowledge than a techno tablet written in stone. And of course that goes for songs too. Like the aboriginal songlines, each tribe possessing their own segment of the atlas, and as you befriend your neighbors, you begin to develop your own understanding of the comprehensive star map. And songs are medicine. Prayers. And they'll be real helpful in getting that Corn to pop.

And a recipe never hurt, though any consumer of my traded fare already knows that I never use them. Humans are good at figuring stuff out, pretty terrible at implementing the invention, but before we got lost in the concrete mixer, we were getting fairly crafty at stirring up a storm. Tribes each had their own specialties, stuff like remembering to treat Corn with Lime and to ferment Soy, but the recon of the missions found many complex concoctions, like prehistoric prescriptions for glue, or even the spread of wildfire. With no debt incurred to extend the courtesy, a traded frybread 'recipe' was more than warmly welcomed, and coincidentally shared a common ingredient list with the roots of 'receipt.'

And the magic of words long predates the practice of 'spelling', so before a printed translation was available for purchase, we swapped tongues. It's of no coincidence that we 'spell' our words, Earthly languages contain mystic powers of interacting with the world around them, and the unwritten pretext allowed them to evolve as they traveled into unknown terrains. A pictorial representation of concept facilitated the unique interpretation of the individual reader, as it linked the senses to living landscapes and lifeforms. Even science backs me up on this one, they've discovered a synesthetic link between the way our brain perceives pictures and connects them to places.

Synesthesia is a 'condition' in which the senses are connected, and one may experience phenomena such as seeing sounds and hearing colors. May sound kooky, but it's super real, and far less crazy to imagine once you realize that our senses are simply vibration receptors. So a hierographic link to reality kinda makes sense, and even our own alphabet was originally composed of symbols with real life counterparts, pictorial placeholders of complete concepts, and the right-to-left typography activated the creative hemisphere of the mind. No spelling to be cast. Only once we made the forced conversion to phonetics, were words broken down into their syllabic components. No longer free to be fluent in motion, we fenced in the recipes of linguistics and cast the backwards spells of sensual disconnection.

And even then, English still tried to start out in a good way, the first documented word was the universally understood term, "love." But, by our second attempt at linguistic creation, all we could come up with was "I", it was all about us, and our ego wrote the book on keeping it that way.

Animals are meant to speak with the land, written phonetic language disrupted communication as it convinced us that we were no longer animals, and numbers and letters are the tools of containment as they attempt to wrap up the wonders of the universe into neat little gift boxes, but I'm not buying it.

*******

And we'd hardly even spent any actual money on our journey, well of course I hadn't, bum, but even John had only bought some pizza ingredients, and that was kind of a gift for me, and for him. We'd eaten other meals, but he was already carrying some supplies, and I had packed a few goodies before we departed. We'd managed to evade the rent police, though now that I'm already cutting fences, might as well get the rent strike kicked off too. And so the only real expense, was gas.

Of course it was, how do you expect anyone to get anywhere without petroleum? We need it. It is the fundamental fluid that keeps civilization lubricated and politicians greased, alcohol's probably close second, but it's far too efficient of a fuel source to ever properly exploit for exportation.

And was our lackadaisical approach to navigation, expending more fuel supply in order to reserve our sanity? Not sure, coulda been, better gas mileage in his jeep on the side roads, but definitely more miles. And we weren't in any kind of hurry, it could take a couple weeks and we'd be cool, but we were still a little shy of the gumption to tackle it on foot. Honestly, I would probably sign up for it, but even I had to admit that it's a tad ridiculous, at least considering the cornrows I'd have for foraging options.

But what if it had taken months on Horseback? I'd be quick to jump on that caravan, especially if the Sunka Wakan was my friend, might even be able to write and drive. But in this current reality, today, what other alternative is there? Yeah, you can get a diesel and buy biofuel in some progressive cities like asheville, or even get the gear to make it at home, but cross country? Or you can convert it to veggie oil, but that's a costly process, and I don't like the burning up of veggie power either. Take the bus, but that still counts. And the only other option is to not go. But sometimes you just gotta go, life happens, and you gotta be there.

*******

We're addicted to mobility, and this is coming from a devout nomad on the greatest road trip of his life. I get it. I think that travel across great expanses opens up a plethora of conundrums, such as the spread of diseases that those at home have already evolved immunities against (cough, small pox), but I believe that it is a totally natural process and probably vital to the unification of the two-legged nation. But it must be done in a non-destructive manner, and we simply need less vehicles out there. The marketing team of our individualistic mindset has convinced everyone that the car is the highest standard of status in the land, and the evolution of instant gratification requires commuters to stay in the fast lane.

John's idea was airships, and he'd been drawing up blueprints already, and although I can foresee traffic in the jet stream, it could be regulated with a simple cap on quantity. Even say if we still used cars, but no money, well, for starters, we'd cut most of that commuter traffic out on the first monday, so now it's just the travelers traveling. And no property, no mine, so you just pull up your uber-di-duper app and check out a car like a library book, or like the 'Go-Cars' that are already rented by the hour in most major cities. There's only so many of them, so only so much congestive heart failure, and when one become available, it's ready for the next person in line. Maybe you'd wait a bit, but our whole way of life would be slowed down to indian time, and nobody's gonna fire you for being late.

But that's just an idea to wean ourselves off of the convenience, and even if we convert to biofuel, there's still road hazards, but for the sake of sticking to the topic of our black tar addiction, let's focus on getting ourselves off of oil. Impossible is the rumor, though I think it was a dapl infiltrator that started that one, but in today's market, they're right. Even the water protectors use oil. Even Ben uses oil. He does drives a prius that gets almost sixty miles to a gallon, pretty efficient for sure, so at least he's somewhat conscious of his footprint. But those are expensive. And there's tons of other oil-free technologies available, but without a major manufacturer to put them on the assembly line, they're just scraps of paper on the drawing room floor. And it's the scraps of paper that run the whole show.

If we can imagine that somehow we actually did get off money, then what might the logistics of keeping our infrastructure afloat look like? Well, we already have the hybrid technology implemented into the mainstream, so if that just became the minimum fuel efficiency requirement, then we'd see an overnight reduction in city smog lines. We already have the technology, why are we still manufacturing the obsolete model? And over the next five years, we'd be free to develop the patents openly purchased by big oil, as they buried them under 400,000 gallons of the sticky icky icky.

And aside from just the four-wheeled death machines on the highway to hell, a big chunk of our oil also goes into industry. Manufacturing. Somebody's gotta make all those new cars, along with all the rest of the disposable junk that they've convinced us we need. Plastic is a product of petroleum, the dirty dapl sludge being sent to china will be reimported as one-time-use polymers, whose only extended shelf life is the land they will fill.

Maybe once money's not a thing anymore, we'll need less cheap crap clutter as we learn to pack light, but for now, it's hard to see a way without the cooperation of the energy companies. And from what I hear, they're just some of the nicest folks. The only way I can see to get their attention, is to stand up to their monopolized grip on our civilization, and demand a cleaner alternative. We could mobilize our resources to combat the existential threat of climate catastrophe before all hope is lost, but with only a few of us aware that there's another way, or who even see a need to change this one, it certainly seems quite the challenge.

The first step is to stop the pipelines that are merely exporting overseas. That one should be easy enough, even the most red-state gas guzzlers should be against fueling the foreigners. But how can we possibly convince the locals to slow down? To conserve energy? If we rationed oil, it would only produce a scare and the accompanying gouges of greed. We've been working on plans to thwart the producers of petro, bank divestments and such, but the cynical realist will say that there will always be another investor, and even if prices skyrocket, the american elite will pay anything to get to work on time. And they might be right. So how could we get average americans to even notice their role in the devastation of our oil addiction? And how could we put big oil on the defensive line for a change? What could a couple of radicals possibly achieve against the biggest corporate entities to ever own america? "Um, I think I might have an idea."

Roots are a most wondrous creation. Their neural highways reach far and wide, as they absorb ancient vibration. They channel the past into the future, as their divergent timelines return to their creator.

Roots are deep in nature. Their memories can be retraced to find their anchor in time. Their origin story is one of dualistic design, as they keep even the wildest dreams grounded in reality.

Roots are expeditions of life. As far out as they manage to travel, they never lose connection with the source. They are toes into the sand, a reminder of home, whose roadmap keeps us from ever becoming lost.

Roots pull energy from the core of creation, as they nourish the growth of new life. Their electric flow travels out into the universe, before once again returning heaven to Earth.

The roots of the past connect us to a time forgotten. As we deepen our reach into the heart of Unci Maka, we become more aware of the intricacies of our being. They provide us with the power to stand strong, as an interwoven family, whose unified efforts are the only defense against the erosive forces of nature. They are the foundation of life, and through the journey of our ancestors, can be found the pathways of tomorrow

*******

Speaking of roots, I could totally be into some hash browns for breakfast. I'd spent the night with the stars as I cuddled up next to the fire, it seemed like the only way to properly commemorate the magic of the day prior. The magical week, really. In fact, it'd been a pretty magical winter. And a magical year. Thank you Unci Maka, for this incredible lifetime of magic and wonder. I am in awe of the complexity of coincidence that has led me to be in this very 'now.' Please help me to walk in a good way as I continue this onward journey. Aho.

Now I could really dig some Potatoes. Would have loved to gather the wild blue variety that grows around here, but I haven't gotten that merit badge yet. I woke with the Sun, it's actually quite natural when your head is resting on the pulse of the planet, and I took off in search of the Rosebud root cellar. I kinda knew where it was, and Dean had tapped around a bit and thought he felt it under the snow, so I just started poking holes in the latest government cover-up of the oppression of indians. I was so excited to roll back to camp with an armful of spuds, but no go, couldn't find it, maybe they filled it in after all, or maybe I was supposed to leave it for my post-apocalyptic pilgrimage. Root cellars work, without electricity, an Earthenware technology whose marketing team couldn't figure out how to commoditize the cooler, so they simply let it become some obsolete novelty of the elders.

We still ate a proper breakfast of course, Rosebud doesn't go hungry, plus I knew where some buried Buffalo was if we got pinched up. Full and happy, we filled the Jeep with as much trash as we could cram into the crevices. There were little bits all over that would takes weeks to sort out, and I didn't touch anything that could possibly be someone's manifested birthday gift waiting to be unwrapped, but there was one eyesore that we just couldn't leave behind. It was a tarp trash explosion, assumedly part of the cleanup crew's commission, so I poked around for my long lost apron, collected the cans for nuclear meltdown, and we piled the pile into the car. One last stop by the inipi as we tied some prayers, John had just enough for two sets, a bundle that a friend had sent with him for this very occasion. Stopped by a dumpster in Cannonball, got invited in next door for a coffee break, but we gotta get outta here before the flood rolls in.

*******

And as per a proper cyclical departure, we decided that maybe we should head to the line 3 camp in minnesota, a path of circular motion to keep the waves of water protection active. We could stay for a day, help gear down for the spring, pack in a few supplies, and who knows what I'd end up doing, I sure didn't.

We tracked down some wifi at Sitting Bull College, imagined that their american history course is a bit different than ours, and I sent my mom a belated birthday confirmation of life. She's the one tether to my roots of existence as I tumble my way through this adventure. Checking in with her provides us both with the comfort of each other's presence. It's gotta be scary for her to know that I'm out in the unknown, and I pray that her own connection continues to grow as she more clearly understands my path of protection. I crave a reconnection with the rest of my family as well, to be able to share my experience in a good way that brings us closer together, as we begin to heal the wounds of separation between us.

And most of all, I miss my son. I pray every single day that we will be reunited in a good way, and that he can feel the love pouring from my heart in his direction. I know that he knows that I love him, but that doesn't negate the pain that I'm sure he feels as I am unable to be by his side. I haven't seen him since before camp, his mother and I's relationship was already stressed over money, and my disappearance into the wind of the snowstorm was the final blow. She is not at all aligned with my lifeway, the polar opposite in fact, but she'd have probably not kept me from him had I continued to pay rent.

And who can blame her, she has bills to pay, and how could I expect her to understand the condition I'm unable to process myself? I'm broken, at least in the terms of the only world she's ever known, and no one who wasn't there can truly understand the traumas we experienced, especially if they don't understand the reason for going in the first place.

I cannot rejoin society. I cannot unsee what my eyes have been opened up to. I could have a panic attack at any moment out in that toxic world, and closing my heart in order to survive the system is simply not an option. I pray that she will come to an understanding of my path, and I pray that I hold only humility, patience, and my own understanding, as I send unconditional love in her direction as well. She is just a product of conditioning, as we all are, and I have the ultimate faith in Unci Maka that she will be awakened to the task at hand when the time is right.

The last message I sent to her tried to explain what I hardly understood at the time, and also a warning of times ahead, which elicited only a diagnosis of insanity and a demand of no further contact. I understand. She only wants what's best for him, and I've obviously gone off the deep end as I eat the bugs of a wire-tapped paranoia.

I am patient. And I know that he follows his heart regardless of the indoctrinations of his environment. I don't even know if he even knows that I was at Standing Rock though, I can only hope that a biased news report popped up and she credited the movement with my disappearance. He is connected to his phone as is every mainstream teenager, and as down on the device as I am, it keeps him free to discover the world outside of his racist red state. Technology may very well be the catalyst of demolition, but it might also be the mechanism of reunification.

If he looked up the movement, then he understands, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't feel abandoned. No youtube video can explain what we went through, the entire shattering of what we thought the world to be, so how can he understand that I have no choice but to continue to commit my life to this mission? Shouldn't I want to be with him at all costs? Shouldn't I feel the same pain he does? How can I expect him to understand what the rest of the world can't, that this is the most important thing I could possibly be doing for his future.

And does that really justify my path? Dedicating my life to service, as he sits at home alone, creating yet another paternal disconnection as he's left to figure out life without my guidance. I don't want my path to blind him to his, I don't want my absence to drive him down the darkened road of escape, how can I be willing to leave him fatherless as I run off to save the rest of the world?

But I just can't exist in the world he lives in anymore, I just can't. I pray so much everyday that he is awakening to the destruction around him, and that he sees my path for what it is, and that he commends me, not condemns me, and that he knows that I will be here for him at the moment he is ready to join me. I pray for strength in his heart as he has trouble understanding the broken world that engulfs him, and that without my perspectives of another way, that he is able to see beyond the walls of the cage that stifles his growth.

I understand that he is on his own journey, and that as bad as I want him in the movement, that it may also just be my ego wanting him to follow in my footsteps. But I don't want that at all, I want him to take my understanding and run as far as he can ahead of me. I feel deep in my heart that this path of living in harmony with Unci Maka, is the only way to survive, and I want him to survive. And as hard as it is to be away from him as I feel the clouds of change sweeping in, I know for a fact that I am on the exact step of my path where I belong, so I can only put the faith in the universe that he is as well.

And maybe that means not being here, maybe it means being out there, so I pray every single day that he feels my love in his heart, and that it gives him the strength to follow it. I hope that my eastward travel holds reunion, but I am patient, though I do like to imagine that he asks me to break him out of that prison, as we reconvene and go on the run together.

I love you so much son, you are the most important person in my life, but I hope you can see that this is not about my life anymore. Please follow your heart, whatever you do, and know that we will be together when the time is right. It is my only prayer that hasn't been answered yet, so I know it's coming soon. There is a big change ahead, please don't get lost in the mix, you are destined to play a vital role in the repairing of our planet. If I do not see you before it happens, then I know I will see you afterwards, just check in with the kitchen when you get to camp. Toksa.

*******

Or maybe he's already at the enbridge camp, I know for sure that one of my closest sisters is. Bob and I had facetimed her last week, so nice to see her, even if it was on a soul capturing digital screen, and now I find myself less than a day's drive away. We thought it would be a little closer to our estimated route, and we didn't exactly know where it was so we messaged her from the college, but we landed on the responsible decision. We were really just going for recon and to visit our dear friend, I wasn't ready to jump off of this bandwagon yet, so it seemed selfishly wasteful to burn an extra day's gas just to visit an oil protest. And that sentiment resonated us both back into the car, as we continued our exploration of resistance.

They were in the thick of it up there, doing whatever it takes to slow the construction of destruction, I guess the only step up from there would be to cut them off at the steam driven extraction point. The tarsands. The dirty filthy frackin crude and rude tarsands, that are even more toxic to transport than Rockefeller's standard oil. And if we could stop the flow altogether, then it wouldn't matter how much pipe they had in the ground. But just imagine the security team they keep with their heads in the sand.

Ok then, so what about the other end of the flow? The refinery. Except that they're probably just shipping the raw sludge across the ocean, so what're we gonna do, hijack an oil freighter? And do what, put it back in the ground? Well, maybe we're not quite ready to tackle that end of it yet, but what about our gross domestic product? It might not be dirty enbridge fracked oil, but the imported oils that we use to export oil, have all had their personal share of global devastation as well.

Remember that BP pipeline that leaked two hundred million gallons over the 87 days that it took them to fix it? 200,000,000 gallons of dirty crude poured directly into your planet's radiator, the same one you get Crabs from, and the 16,000 miles of coastline directly affected are still finding oil washed ashore, eight years later. Or the Exxon Valdez tanker spill that spewed another eleven million gallons, over thirty years ago, enough time to have made major change in the policies of our planet, had the dollar bill not promised us that pipelines were a far safer alternative fuel source. Oil leaks are not a new thing, they're inevitable, and there are already half a million miles of pipe waiting to burst under the surface of our country's foundation. They are a crime against the Earth and an attack on her population, a violation that should certainly hold harsher punishments than peacefully praying for her health, and they do, but we will all be serving the deferred sentence soon enough.

Maybe people just don't know. But they have to, that BP thing was all over the news, even the mainstream news, but it was only a simple segment among the clutter of misinformation that they bombard their nightly viewers with. The world is full of bad stuff happening all the time, at least that's how the fear-based media keeps our attention on the tube. So, is a little oil in our water really the worst thing that could happen?

Those that have been personally devastated by oil spills, know that it is. Like in south dakota, where the keystone pipeline leaked 200,000 gallons, no, wait, they lied, it was actually over 400,000 gallons of oil into the farmlands of your produce aisle. And now they want to build the keystone XL, an even bigger badder pipe whose increased capacity should be able to break all kinds of oil spill records. Or exxon's 200,000 gallons that dumped into the laps of residential arkansas, a knee-high wave of black gold that forced families to evacuate their permanent residences, not quite the motivation for nomadism I was looking for.

But look it up, the photos are appalling, especially once you find that the single most profitable corporation in the world has not only resumed the piping, but they've actually increased the flow, even though they claim to have no idea what caused the leak. Never saw that picture on the news, probably just got lost in the shuffle, but maybe if we just show the users of oil what the cost of gas really is, maybe that'll stop 'em from topping off their weekend excursion. Yeah right, but let's go with it for a minute.

*******

So what if we printed stickers with the photos of devastation and a nice catch phrase like, "This is the real price of gas." or "What if this was your backyard?" or "How's this for fuel efficiency?" And then put them all around town. Or place them at the pump. That's it, stick photos of exxon's mess at their own pumps, no bombardment of terror to dilute the truth, just a single message to consider, for the twenty gallons that we already have your attention. It's a good idea, and may actually get a few people to think for a change, but best case, they probably just start going to the BP across the street. But at least that would affect exxon's bottom line, though I doubt it would even be noticed.

Well, what if we force them to notice? What if we disable the pumps? That causes both exxon to suffer, and the customer to wonder what in the world is going on. And there's our sticker right up front - "This is what's going on."

Again, would exxon even notice? Seems like only the individual proprietor would suffer. And the consumer. They'd be pissed. Already late to work and now there's confusion at the gas station, the complexion of conundrum before they've even had their first taste of black brew, or they don't even pause as they roll past the yellow out of order signs. Would we possibly gain their support, or just more resistance to the movement? But maybe we need them to get worked up. Not worrying about it, is how we got into the mess pictured in the above photo. Yeah, they'll be pissed, especially when they have to drive all the way across the street to BP. And then that one's disabled too.

When the entire exit has been gas-exed, or when it's the only two stations for miles, or the best one is when it's all of the stations in a downtown area, people will be pissed. There's not too many pumps in a financial district, and often they're the same brand, so just imagine the water cooler conversation at wells fargo, when nobody in town could get gas this morning. People would be pissed, but they would be talking about it, and about the stickers, which link to a website of spill info and the resistance of further devastation. It would bring awareness and open a dialog, it would force the sheep to pay attention for a moment, and it might even make the news.

And just imagine if other teams started doing it in other metropolitan areas around the country. It would cause mass hysteria. It would certainly cause a gas scare and price gouging, and heightened security at the pump, but if it caught on at that scale, then you know we'd have exxon's attention. What if we focus on just one company, if exxons around the country all take a hit?

A single station strategy leaves the owner thinking that kids vandalized his business, but a mass uprising of national proportion, would get the execs as flustered as a Duck trying to swim in an oil puddle. And if they have to send a repairman to fix it, or if an abnormal amount of parts have to be suddenly ordered, just how long will the system be down? Oh, they're gonna be pissed. And we've certainly crossed the line into domestic terrorism, ill will towards oil is a known threat to the owners of america, but I'm still claiming self-defense.

So nobody involved is going to be happy, even hippies headed to an oil protest might scoff, but if people aren't willing to change the oil themselves, then it might take some drastic measures to save the planet from the humans. I don't really give a shit if people are happy. This blinded behavior has enabled the annihilation of my mother's well-being, and jeopardized the future of our children, none of us should be happy, and we should be doing something about it. Because if we don't, she's getting ready to, and it's gonna be a lot worse than rush hour traffic.

It is time for a wake-up call, a drastic shift in our collective consciousness, and for your sake, let's hope it happens before the alarms start going off. If we simply continue life as we know it, then we're not gonna know very much after it's too late, but if we come together as concerned citizens of our planet, then maybe we could do something about it. It's easy to agree that we need a change, as you fill the tank on your daily commute. To fight the pipes firsthand, and then drive across the country. The only way that we'll ever be able to make a difference, is to completely change the way we view the world around us, and to make a concerted effort to change our entire way of life.

And yeah, I still use gas to get around, for now, as I navigate within the system that I'm attempting to unravel. And yeah, even though I've greatly reduced my own footprint, there's still tons of people who haven't, which only seems to drown out my breath of fresh air. So yeah, while the change needs to begin on a personal level, that is not enough, we have to stand together and demand a transformation of the power grids that be. There are already alternative fuels on the market, and many more sequestered away in the pockets of petrol, but they will not voluntarily make the biofuel conversion until all accounts have been drained and deposits cashed in. At least until we rise up and demand cleaner energy implementation over the profits of corporate interest. We can't view the Earth as a commodity, we have to understand that it is our home, and treat it like it's the only one we have. Just this once, I'd be ok with an insistence on permanence. Please, let's protect our planet, the future of humanity depends on it.

But my pleas are only going to reach those already on a path to waking up, nobody else is nuts enough to read this mess, so we have to do something to catch the attention of those still in a deep slumber. Those so caught up in the rat race, that they don't realize they're headed over a cliff. If we have any hope of not experiencing the planetary cleansing of our race, we must do something now, we are out of time. Today may be a good day to die, but I sure wouldn't mind putting it off until tomorrow.

*******

So what can we do? Let's head 'em off at the pump. It's the only place they'd even consider their addiction to oil. Plus, it hurts the despicable drug dealers in the process. If we rise up and alert the rest of the population that we are unwilling to let them destroy our children's future, maybe they'll listen to our pleas then, or maybe not, but we're shutting the system down either way.

So cities, yeah, main targets, they're the key to hitting the news and really going viral, but catching three small towns in a row, makes for one hefty commute on an empty tank. Or the few exits just outside the skyline, as commuters rush to miss morning traffic. And yeah yeah yeah, ok, I'm with the plan of forcing the public to see that we must change today, but how are we supposed to disable all those pumps?

Ah, thought you'd never ask, that bit is actually the easy part. I started out just wanting to cut the hoses and take the nozzles, but that seems a bit dangerous to just have open gas lines strewn about, especially with texting drivers who mindlessly swipe their cards and go boom. And that's the main part to remember, we can't set it up so that anybody gets hurt, and there can't be any gas spills, it kinda defeats the point of our point. So we just render the handle useless. I like the poetic idea of coating the handles with dirty oil, then it covers their hand as they see the sticker of it covering the planet, but that only pisses off a few people before they simply clean the pump. Nope, we have to make it serious enough that they must contact the corporate office.

Epoxy. Not the liquid syringe kind, but the two part putty, check out Blue Magic's QuikSteel or JB Weld's SteelStik. You mix up a ball of it and stuff it in above the lever, there's a piston up there that lets the gas flow, so once the epoxy hardens, the lever will simply not activate the pump. Anti-depressing. And that alone will gum up the works, as there will essentially be a steel blob wrapped around the operating mechanism.

Pretty simple, huh? Couple caveats with this one though. If it's done in the middle of the night, no worries, but I would allegedly be planning to interrupt the daytime flow as well. The tricky bit is that once you push the blob in there and pull away, unless it's had enough time to cure, it may still be too soft to stop the depression of the next consumer. Or it could harden around the piston while it's in the open position, which could possibly cause a spillage. So you'll have to stall a few minutes as it hardens, but there's a caveat to that one too. If this starts happening a lot, they'll check the security camera, and you'll be the last one at the working pump.

*******

Ok, since all of this is obviously fiction and in no way a confession, plus, millions of devoted readers also have this exact same plan, the one that I'm pretty sure I saw on netflix somewhere, with no admission of guilt on the table, here's how I see it going down.

The nighttime in small towns is easy enough, just don't get shot, but the real heist is the middle of the day city maneuver. It takes a big team, you can't just shut down one pump, you have to take out the entire location. Gotta get cheap burner cars, or cabs or something, fake plates of course, and in my movie we duplicate the tags of exxon executives. We all pull up, could actually get gas so as not to tip off the clerk, use a anonymous visa gift card, but I don't think all of us even have to get gas. You've got a passenger mixing the putty, jam a big blob in there, and then the best part is that this is just phase one of a multi-tiered brain teaser.

You slide a small shard of a credit card into the reader, just like a quarter inch strip, enough so that another card can't quite get all the way in. Or maybe just another blob of epoxy. And while you're doing that, your partner mixes up some super-fast-curing liquid epoxy, sets in sixty seconds, you glob it onto the nozzle's resting platform, so now it's glued down and can't even be picked up to begin with. And a sticker. Then everyone pulls out and hits the station across the street. Or the next town. You'll have a bit of time, but don't dillydally.

The next customer rolls up, probably tries the card reader first, doesn't work, that's strange, so now they have to go inside to pay. How inconvenient. Then they come out and can't get the prepaid handle to move, WTF? They have to go back in, the clerk has no idea what's going on, and then another customer has the same problem, and then another. Chaos ensues, long lines inside, gotta refund payments, and call the owner.

They would still think it was mere vandalism, but the sticker lets them know that we mean no business, but that thin layer of epoxy can probably be broken with a screwdriver or something. So the clerk or the maintenance guy spend a few hours chiseling away at the resistance, then they remove the card shard out of there, and now they should be back in the black. Oh wait, nevermind, there's a giant steel blob that had plenty of time to cure as it encompasses the piston. This handle is trashed. All eight pumps are.

How many spare handles do you think they keep on hand? How many handles does exxon keep at the base? More than eight, less than eight hundred. And they'd notice if all of a sudden they had to send cases all over the country.

Oh, they'd notice, and they'd send private intelligence firms like TigerSwan to investigate, and probably the informants of the FBI, who will most likely look at the tapes. The culprits seem to all be wearing disguises, old lady wigs and stuff, though only prosthetics could outsmart the facial recognition found in your smartphone. The cameras are all in different locations at different stores, so case them first and know your good side. This will be a serious offense, messing with the oil companies is not as politically correct as shooting indians, be careful.

*******

Or schedule a three hundred person costumed flash mob around the pumps, just kneel down and tie your shoes as the fog and streamers take flight, the actual application process is pretty quick and inconspicuous. And if you opt to do it while they're closed, then just walk up and do it, at least until they start waiting for us. The traceable cars are really the tricky part, and assembling the team, but in my hollywood montage, each crew member has a specialty and a cool nickname, and we have an accomplice buy cheap rides on craigslist, though now they're definitely gonna look into that one. If this were to actually become a thing, we're talking serious investigation, and serious jail time, or worse.

And here's a problem, what if someone has an emergency and needs gas? What if they need to get to the hospital in a hurry? Yeah, I guess my official stance is not to try this at home, just another fictional delusion from yours truly.

And if we timed it with the flag flipping, oh man oh man oh man. So pick downtown stations with not too many pumps, in areas where there's only a couple around, and preferably the same leaky brand. It might even be a few days before they recovered, and you'll anonymously post a pic, but if we do it right, it'll already be going viral as it catches national attention. And then another city gets hit. Same crew, different crew, who knows, I just read it in a book.

Well, good news, think I just made a few top ten lists with this one. Come and get me. I stand behind my words. I stand behind my actions. I stand behind the greatest planet in the history of the world. And in front of her. Something must be done to stop the devastation that our species insists upon. I am proud to be that person, but I cannot do it alone. No matter which avenue of action begins the toppling of the empire, they will frame us as the bad guys, as terrorists, and the sheep at home will believe them because that's what they do, but they will only be able to keep it up for so long. Their only option will be to declare martial law, which will send some sheep inside, but the rest of us must rise up. Do not stand down. We are on the precipice of the most beautiful time in human history, I sure hope the humans are still around to see it.

*******

Geez dude, let's get back to the story already, we get it, alright? Whew.

So, we decided not to go to the enbridge camp in minnesota, and then we got off of our estimated route somehow, off the map completely, and on some unknown county road headed east, when I kid you not, we passed an enbridge distribution facility. A big compound with huge tanks and a filling stall for tankers, it was literally a giant enbridge gas station. What a coincidence.

Also convenient, was that in my previous career of stealing souls, I once shot a training video of a similar facility back home. Yep, I kinda had a video of the inner workings of the targe... I mean the legitimate business whose scruples I admire and applaud. Eh, we'll just mark the map and come back to that one, carry on.

We saw a pretty good bit of wildlife along the way, including a mill town full of Mule Deer, there they were, just standing in everyone's front yards. People weren't upset at the grass being mowed, and no fences defined the 'property' lines among the classifications of species, it was pretty freaking cool. I'd imagine they don't hunt them very much, or else they probably wouldn't hang out all day, but I wonder if they could milk 'em. And maybe they do eat some of them, but they would have to be conscious of not hunting to excess, or else they'd have to start paying a landscaper.

And do the Deer stay all year, or were they just passing through on their naturally nomadic journey? So even if we can't personally get on board with the migration train, if we just live a life that allows for others to travel freely, that's a huge step in the right direction. We can once again make it legal to be a nomad, as we allow roadside lodging without the threat of incarceration. If we don't see the waves of diversity as pests, but as fascinating travelers stopping in for a bite to eat, then we'll happily cheer on the cycles of the circle, instead of just trying to box them out.

It's really the best for everyone involved, except for those invested to capitalize on the scarcity scare. They've convinced us that we can't just eat what's already growing outside, so we have to buy it from them. They've convinced us that since we can't eat it, we might as well plant things that don't naturally grow here as decoration, so we have to buy it from them. They've convinced us that any creature who does like to eat that stuff is a nuisance, and it's our civic duty to become pesticidal maniacs, so we have to buy it from them. They've convinced us that even though we don't want animals eating it, it is our duty as humans to own a lawnmower, so we have to buy it from them. And now we're caught up in this vicious life cycle that leaves no time to gather our wits or our dinner, because we're too busy working for the system, in order to afford living in the system.

But if we just let nature travel along its charted course, we'd see the food supply spread like an undisputed wildfire. We'd of course plant the seeds of what we like in our own yards, that's just common sense, so maybe even the commoners can figure that one out. The parade of dinner guests would drop by for a bite to eat, mow the lawn a bit, and even fertilize the place, and now you don't even have to report for duty at the landscaping company.

They'd eat from your food supply, sure, but is it really 'your' food supply? Plus, I'm sure you planted more than you'd possibly need, that's just common sense. The best though, is that once this parade becomes an annual celebration, the foods of other regions will work their way to you, as your favorites are passed along to the next. And maybe some stuff doesn't work that way, but once we're talking to the Deer, I bet they'd be down with carrying a mobile seed bank on their back, it would certainly benefit them as much as us.

Or why wait for Dr Doolittle to roll through? Once it's no longer against the law to be a nomad, there will be real life humans following the herds, it's kinda what we're meant to do. Maybe the mainstream isn't meant to go with the flow, but lots of people are. In today's fractured world of fenced-in property lines, it's nearly impossible, only a crazy person would travel with just a cup and a spoon. But once it's socially acceptable and we are warmly welcomed to roam the countryside, camping in any unoccupied patch of grass and cooking whatever we can find, that's when we'll really experience the cross-pollination of species.

You'll share the best fireside conversations with those abroad. They'll be packing foreign delicacies, a level of exportation that is naturally limited by a willingness to carry the burden across state lines. You'll be thrilled to share your own foods, as you combine your powers to create delicious fusions of trail and home, like Dandelion root wood-fired pizza. And the gift exchange that happens effortlessly as you part ways with your new friends, will include some of the seeds they've encountered along the way, as you pass your own down the road of tomorrow. The sharing of sacred seeds, is how the new world worked back before it was discovered. It's a proven method of sustaining human life on this continent, I dare you to say the same about our colonized agrinomicide.

And while we're at it, maybe ya'll could carry this letter to my cousin in albuquerque, plus, they've got an awesome garden that you guys just gotta check out. Maybe this regularly scheduled flow of energy could be the conduit for eco-friendly communication. Or better yet, just teach them a song to lighten the load and share the news with a singing telegram. Songs could be the crypto-currency of the future, especially those whose language casts a spell of enchantment as they resonate with the planet.

Ok, now we're getting a tad outlandish, at least until we talk about the songlines of the aboriginal tribes in australia. Pathways of nomadary across the landscape, and songs in an Earthly language tell of the landmarks to keep the travelers on course. And only certain tribes held the songs of particular segments of the trail, but ambitious explorers were capable of picking them all up and compositing a roadmap to the stars. And interestingly enough, this tribe has recently opened their ancient caves up to the public, because their 'ancestors' all of a sudden told them to, as a mechanism of healing the Earth and awakening the spirit within.

*******

Sleep is to awake, as dark is to light, as fear is to love, as scarcity is to abundance, as forgetting is to remembering. They're all the same thing, the duality of existence that facilitates the experience of motion. The mechanisms that enable us to conceptualize time. It is only through these broad spans of transitory disconnection, that we are capable of understanding that we don't understand. It gets awfully boring when you're the smartest being in the universe, believe me, and certainly difficult to find any engaging conversation about the meaning of life. So after an eternity of watching the final episode over and over, it would only make sense to start the season back at the beginning and rewatch the whole thing. But it would kinda spoil the cliffhangers if you already knew the outcome, so you'd have to do like the Godfather, and fugget about it.

And that is the recap to catch you up to this new season that we're about to experience. We are God. Every single one of us is a song, that when combined, create the composite of universal consciousness as can only be perceived by a multidimensional being. We are each a pixel of life, flickering through our own unique color pallet, as light is projected through the jumbotron of existence. We have traversed the retuning of this cosmic television from the most extreme depths of bad reception.

From the first big bang on the top of the set, we saw nothing but the chaotic static of complete separation, pure fragments of scattered black and white. Or dark and light. As the dial was drastically adjusted in the furthest extreme direction, we passed the center point of univision, but it quickly dissipated away as the squiggles of colorful wavelengths melted back into static, though not quite as scrambled as before. The tuning to the frequency of the clearest complete picture, was ever so slightly more dialed in than it had been before. So naturally, we turn the dial the other way, like a driver overcorrecting their estimated curvature of the Earth, and yet again we find ourselves crossing the center line as we near the edge of the road, but slightly more controlled than last time.

In case you're as lost as our vibrating driver of fibonacci, let me expand our consciousness. The singularity of the universe was the completely clear picture on the tv, or the center line on the road, and then it suddenly swerved into the static of fragmented subatomic particles. It then came back together through the mechanics of gravity, which I've described as the turning of knobs and wheels. It was successful in reaching a unified vision, but recompressing the earliest components of the universe only caused another massive explosion, which blew the car back to the static on the other side of the road.

With each gravitational coming together, and its eventual supernova of expansion, more complex elements were created, and the fuzziness of our television slowly started to become focused. The back and forth nature of this universal tuning to channel one, can be more easily visualized as the cyclical waveform of a car swerving back and forth on the road, as they ever so slowly regain control of the vehicle.

Now, I apologize if you were already following my curvy trajectory, but I wanted to be as straightforward with my circular reasoning as possible. So, the magical Godlike number of Phi is the center line, and our squiggly skid mark is Fibonacci asleep at the wheel, as we slowly try to regain consciousness. We catch glimpses of it during the crossover episodes, but then we doze again until we hit the rumble strips at the edge of disaster. So we're still talking about way before people, or even planets, back when the universe was literally in black and white.

We'll keep going with rerunning tv metaphors, but this part is not one, the earliest universe was very much a web of light particles cutting through the darkness of empty space. The origin of existence was simply in black and white. As it cycled back and forth, the two extremes of duality began to reconverge, and the first gray area was created. The universe happens in the gray area. That's what it's all about. Ok, now back to our show.

*******

As our swerve started to calm down a bit, we could more clearly focus on the road, and through the scrambled vibrations of stolen cable, the universe began to show a semblance of order. Spiraling galaxies formed, and spiraling stars formed, and spiraling planets formed, and spiraling moons formed, and the universe seemed to be spiraling into control. Still adjusting the dial back and forth, but now we've gotten into a much more dynamic color spectrum with each explosion, which create new elements, which are simply new frequencies of vibration, which refract the same white light in a new way, creating the cosmic rainbow of space unicorns.

About this time, we find the discovery channel airing a marathon of Planet Earth. Her own physical trajectory of orbit around the Sun, exhibited a similar swerving pattern as our student driver. But over millions of years, she autocorrected her texting and driving habits, and now she is a fairly stable cosmonaut, although she is still a bit wobbly. And it is precisely this wobble, that keeps track of our planet's spiraling journey through the space-time continuum. It is a scale of time that is far outside of any conceivable future from this dimension, the entire cycle of one wobble is to her, what one single day is to us, but it would take ten million of our days to equal one of hers. She is just like us, she is us, and in the course of one of her days, which includes a darker colder period and a warmer lighter period, she also experiences a back and forth sleep cycle. The vibrations of the Sun wake her up, and as she wobbles away from them, she falls back asleep.

The whole interstellar system is built on spiraling cycles within cycles within cycles. We see the planet around us spring to life every morning, and then fall asleep at night. We see the planet around us spring to life every summer, and then fall asleep for the winter. We only live for a 500th of her wobble cycle, but if we were some celestial being who lived billions of years and was 333,000 times bigger than her, like say our Sun, then we would also see her astronomical waking life as just another cycle of revolutionary development. And we would also be able to influence her development, in fact, it seems that her world literally revolves around ours.

For benefit of our pea-brains, we can visualize her yearly revolution as a single minute in planetary time, and her daily rotation a mere second as she blinks her eyes every night. This of course means that her 13,000 year wobble, is only a day in the life of a 13,170,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 pound planet, which means that the Mayans didn't have the world's most sophisticated calendar, it was actually a clock. With every complete wobble cycle, the Earth experiences a cold period of disconnection and a warm period of consciousness, and the recent alarms that went off in 2012 signified that it was time to wake up. This is nothing new to her, she's been doing this since she was born, although back then the wobble was far more drastic, which is obvious if we refer back to our skid marks orbiting the center lane.

The first erratic days of her trajectory looked like a magma filled cadbury egg, definitely no life happening in the bowels of her yolk quite yet. Her orbit was a bit shaky as she experienced violent mood swings, cycling between super hot and not as super hot, but every time calming down a bit as she found her center. Eventually, her gestation period was complete, and we saw life 'spring' into action. Over the course of many days and nights, she fell dormant and returned to awareness, which caused major shifts to the emotional climate of her body. Her cells experienced long periods of unmolested growth, and then long periods of adverse conditions, which depleted the weaker cells and made the remaining cells stronger.

The consciousness of her own bodily systems faded as she 'fell' into the dreamworld, but they continued to function autonomously, just as the bodily systems of any biological creature do. Just as humans fall asleep and their bodies repair damaged cells and destroy the broken ones, her body undergoes the exact same process. We are merely miniature models of our mother, and just as every cell in our body is replaced every seven years, she also is a creature of impermanence.

*******

The birth of life as we know it was conceptualized long long ago, as the Sun's energy began warming her up to the idea. We went through countless phases of adolescence, took some tumbles as we figured ourselves out, but we always listened to what mom and dad had to say. We worshiped them. We hardly had any life of our own, we were always held close to her heartbeat and we ate up anything he had to tell us, so we grew up into well-behaved young planetarians. She fell dormant every night, some of us were obsoleted, she shed her dead skin cells, and woke up a more matured version of herself, refreshed for another beautiful day of sunshine. We weren't upset at the change, no more than your toenails are, because we knew that her continued metamorphosis only upgraded our own existence, and the more evolved we would become as our eternal energy circulated throughout her being.

And then we hit puberty. It was time to grow up and be a man. Real men aren't mama's boys, and they definitely don't listen to their dad, although they're generally on a path of becoming him, made in his image and all. And when dad gave us our coming-of-age talk, he imparted us with a gift that went straight to our heads, our ego. The god of the heavens reached down and touched man with light vibrations, or maybe it was the clouds of darkness that slithered in and made him fearful of food poisoning, either way, man was now under the illusion that he was some separate entity outside of the rest of creation.

Man is the forgetter. He is capable of forgetting where he came from. He is disconnected from his roots in this world. When you haven't spoken to your folks in a while, it's easy to get lost out there among the chaos. Of course, from their wisened perspective, there is no chaos, it's just another day like the rest. Or night. They know that there is no reason to be afraid of the dark, that the dark is just the balance to light, and that it is only through the darkness, that the light is obscured enough to be able to look directly into. Like that eclipse we watched, it was only through the shade of cloud cover that we were able to perceive the phenomenon, otherwise, we'd have just been blinded by the awesome power of our father in the sky. And then a glimpse through the magic goggles of a heightened perspective, seemed to open a portal directly to the big guy himself.

*******

We are that same blinding light, but we are not evolved enough to be able to harness it without exploding, so we have been given our egos to filter out eighty-nine percent of it. That's just an average, some of us are evolved enough to be able to use more than eleven percent of our brains, some less. The entire database of universal understanding is right there, in each of us, and as we evolve and reduce the darkening effect of ego, we gain insights into the mind of God. We are all God, the entire universe is in our heads, and we are just watching from different angles of the same scrambled egg.

When our mother is awake, it's easy to stay grounded in reality, it would feel absurd not to. No matter how old we get, there's something comforting about hearing her voice as she sings us to sleep. Going to sleep is nothing to be ashamed of, it is simply a part of life, and it empowers us to awaken a stronger, more evolved version of ourselves. You may not feel it each night, but when you look back at your teenage years, you underwent a pretty substantial amount of growth. And as you approach forty, you realize that somewhere in there you grew into an adult, kinda. And our mom needs rest too, dealing with this many teenagers would wear anyone out, and tomorrow, she'll rise up and be ready for a whole new adventure.

But it's kinda scary when she's asleep. At least when we're not old enough to flip the light on by ourselves, which keeps us in the dark as to what time it is. Hence, the giant Mayan clock. We are wired to forget, to lose our grip on reality as we dream that this is it. This is a natural cycle, one that has happened before, there is no need to fear the unknown. This is our time to shine and prove just how grown up we've become.

Plus, it's not like she's abandoned us, she may be sleeping, but we can still see her breathe, we can still hear her heartbeat, and we can still maintain our own internal balance, which keeps us tuned-in to all of her autonomous cycles. And dad might not be in town right now, but he keeps us updated with advice through his solar radio waves, which are received by photosynthetic antennae, and maybe long hair. And even if they're both occupado, we are part of a tribe, we have a whole family of older relatives to look after us, to counsel us if we have any questions. We can just ask our ancestors.

*******

The ancestors remember a time before, they understand the nature of us forgetting, and they are here to guide us through the darkness. Indigenous people from the varying bioregions around the world, experience very diverse colors of climate, food, and celebration, as well as a wide array of ceremonial traditions. These differences in prayer are no catalyst for separation, they are merely unique hues with which the planet paints her story, a vibrant palette of intricate fancy dances.

As individual as these flowering rituals appear at first glance, one must only take a step back, as the entire floral field of vision comes into focus. Each way to pray is a beautiful bloom of its own, but they also share the same fundamental characteristics with all of the other wildflowers, each influenced by the flair of the local ancestors. The entire rainbow is represented among the petals of prayer, but every single one reaches to the same Sun as it moves across the sky, they each dig their toes into the same soil as they exchange vibrations with the Earth, and every original people has an original teaching that helps them to melt their egos as they remember why they are here.

I call her Unci Maka, others know her as Pachamama, or Gaia, or simply Mother Earth, and regardless of what language you speak, we are all a part of her. Thousands of various tribes around the world all held her the most sacred, even without an international translation, so if a high percentage of devout followers is enough to convince you who to put your faith in, she wins every time.

She was home to a planet full of unorganized societies, not disorganized, just yet to be contained into the cages of civilization. No grand plan of running the world, because they operated at her frequency, and just did whatever felt right in each moment. They talked to the trees and received sage advice from the plants. They prayed to the sacred animals who sustained them through the winter. They sang to the water and they sweat to the oldies, and they worshiped the dirt that their grandfathers walked on.

But this was no patriarchy. Regardless of which elder led them in prayer, they were merely a proxy for the one true queen of the planet. A matriarchal power structure is round, like the Earth. And the flow of directive energy emanates outward in all directions, like the Earth. And there is no chain of command for communicating with the divine leader, because every individual is capable of speaking with her directly, like the Earth.

She knew she would be falling asleep, as did the people of the before time, because they shared one singular consciousness. Every vibrating cell of every being on Earth, was perfectly aligned, as they composed the vibrating cells of the Earth herself. They prepared for their descendants the best they could, they passed down traditions of living in a good way, as well as ancient rituals of remembrance. Our ancestors gave us these ceremonies to remind us that we are not our physical bodies, we are a piece of the unified spirit of Unci Maka. We are not here to fuel our egos with self-importance, we are here to empower the evolution of the most complex woman we will ever encounter.

And together, as an awakened population following the guidance of our divine hive leader, we are capable of the impossible. As a connected species of nature, we are the supernatural. Only through this unified field of energy exchange, was the worldwide construction of giant stone monoliths achievable. 200,000 pound stones cut with laser precision, a feat that cannot be replicated with even the most sophisticated of modern technology. Massive structures that we can't even begin to speculate upon how they were assembled, and somehow they are perfectly aligned with the flows of the planet's energy centers, as well as the time signatures of our Earthly awareness. Our best colonized guess, is aliens, or slaves, because colonization doesn't leave room for believing in a sentient Earth, because colonization was built over top of a sentient Earth, because colonization only works if they can manage to destroy the sentient Earth.

*******

They 'ruined' the ancient rock formations that connected us to the cyclical vibrations of the planet. They illegalized the handed down ceremonies of remembering, and killed any who refused to forget. They burned every library that held archaic texts, as well as those who continued to pray to their mother. They extract the essence of her energy and pour sludge into her veins. They assault her children with a barrage of vibrational disconnection and illness. The list of offense goes on and on, because they are desperately trying to retain control as she enters this period of reawakening.

Man is a natural born forgetter, this is not their doing, but they are attempting to capitalize on our temporary disconnection and enslave us for the next thirteen thousand years. The wobble skews the incoming Sun vibrations in such a way that we get lost in translation, but every aspect of colonization, is built in a way that takes advantage of our susceptibility to conditioning, as they brainwash us into believing that we are destined for dystopia.

We are already in their prison, and happily pay the pittance for the dirty foods of their overpriced commissary. We cheer on every advance of vibrational disconnection, as it simultaneously eradicates the remaining people of the Earth, and the sacred spaces they defend. They are drawing near to their ultimate goal of global domination, a worldwide cage that keeps our mother defenseless, as they continue to exploit her for every drop of life they can. They have successfully indoctrinated ninety-nine percent of the human population into believing that we are in charge, this fallacy only puts us under their control, as we see no other way outside of their systems of oppression. Only through our reconnection to the planet and the destruction of our ego, will we be able to break the chains that they are attempting to cement into the future.

*******

So who is this 'they' that we've credited with capturing our attention? Sounds an awful lot like the 'them' of my separation anxiety. And it sounds like they've been uniting humanity under one roof for a long time. In the house of man. One united kingdom. A kingdom over which they have undisputed totalitarian control. A kingdom who has systematically uprooted the trees of life that construct a pagan planet full of planet worshipers. A kingdom whose roots can be traced back to King Dom himself, had he not obliterated every page of herstory, and replaced it with his.

The destruction of our mother, is the story of our father, as the jealousy of his ego sent him on this ultimate quest for power. It began with one reptilian if you believe in the bible, or thirteen if you believe in the illuminati, and the inherited kingships flowed through the bloodlines from the vatican to the pentagon. The patriarchy is not the bad guy, it is merely the control system used to dismantle a symbiotic planet of vibrational harmony, as it enslaves her children and forces them to do the dirty work. It's blatant oppression of women, is reflected in the oppression of our liquid planet, as they attempt to subdue the natural cycles of her evolution. Of our evolution.

They understand that their illusion of authority will dissolve, as our egos fade away, and they are terrified of growing powerless, as we emerge from our cocoon and bloom into the next stage of universal enlightenment. They will be left in the dust of the Earth, as we shed the decaying cells of our cancerous disconnection. Their only hope of survival, is to incarcerate the spirit of our planet, before she is able to shake free of the chains with which they have enslaved humanity.

Their attack is three tiered, the most obvious of which, is the military superiority of a fledgling nation founded under the guise of freedom. The citizens of this young country are the most indoctrinated to date. They are not only enslaved by the mechanisms of total control, they are brainwashed to the point of proudly spreading their disease to the farthest reaches of the globe. They are blinded by the spoils of superiority, as they genuinely believe that they alone hold the keys to the future.

Their condition is only a product of the patriarchal imbalance of power, which began its spiritual takeover of our species long before its first missions overseas. The violent defeat of our symbiotic connection to the planet, was only possible through the faculties of the catholic church. As can be seen in the history of our own country, they are quite capable of the most despicable evils in the name of spreading complete compliance. They overtly demonize any attempt to retain a harmonious relationship with the Earth, as the tactics they employ range from kidnapping to genocide. This was all perfectly moral, and legal, at least once the pope penned "Romanus Pontifex", a papal bull that declared war on non-christians, applauded land seizures, as well as the perpetual enslavement of entire races of people.

Their attempted hijacking of the planet is not a closely guarded secret, their followers are supremely justified in their belief that it is their sacred duty to spread their doctrines to the farthest reaches of the globe. As kings extended the borders of their reign, christianity extended its parallel insistence on subservience. Only through their complete conversion of the planet's pagans, will their ultimate mission be complete. A worldwide cultural takeover in which it is impossible to retain any Earthly traditions, and the homogenization of God is spread, as the parasitic culture of the Agri engulfs the globe in revolution.

Their top-down patriarchal power structure, focuses humanity's combined vibration towards the father, as it dissolves any connection to our maternal instinct. This unnatural flow of energy has enabled the monetary enslavement of the masses, as it has created volatile conditions across the surface of the planet. The entanglement of the church and the financial grip over mankind, is of no surprise, the vatican is the single wealthiest corporation on the globe, as they funnel in the lifeforce of over a billion conquered humans.

But the patriarchal prisons of profit are not bound by the doctrines of the church. The secular circles of the world, have forgotten spirituality altogether, and have replaced it with an internal desire of fame and fortune. They have simultaneously convinced us of both the merits of scarcity and excess, and through our fear of going without, we are willing to bleed the planet dry in order to ensure our survival. They have brainwashed us into believing that money is the ultimate God, that it is worthy of our worship as we spend every drop of energy in its pursuit. They have replaced the freely flowing fundamentals of life, with a mandatory exchange of monetary compensation. Through this belief that money is the all powerful mechanism of life, we have only perpetuated its grip on humanity, as we continue to forget our roles as caretakers of the Earth.

*******

Unci Maka is the all powerful mechanism of life. She will freely provide abundance to all who believe in her might. Her powers of manifestation, are mirrored in each of us, but it is up to you to seek connection in your heart. They have nearly succeeded in their attempted caging of our planet, which is the caging of humankind. They are desperately trying to complete their takeover before she regains consciousness and we are empowered to dismantle their regime. They are too late. She is already waking up. She is already awakening her children. Thousands of us are already prepared for tomorrow. Their vibrational grip on reality will not last, it is already beginning to crumble as she sheds the shell of her metamorphosis. Her evolution has already begun, it is time to decide, will you fearfully cling to the permanence of ego, or will you take flight into the unknown abundance of the greatest mystery in the universe?

### VI. Return to Paradise

I had a dream the other night that I was with my mom, my biological human mom, and we were watching this psychedelic cartoon of two light beings, a mother and a child. The mother was teaching the child how to communicate through their pineal gland, how to exercise their third eye chakra and develop an extra sensory perception. There was an exchange of colorful vibration between the two, as the child learned to connect in a way as natural as walking and talking.

My dreams are real. Heightened vibration communication is real. I am on a path of reconnecting as I purify my material self. I can feel the subtleties of my evolution happening in the moment. This dream was a transmission from my mom, the other one.

*******

I gave up meat today. Well, not real meat, just caged meat. Fenced meat. Farmed meat. I guess technically, I gave it up after I ate that road bacon, we'd already been eating vegetarian all week. So, sure, it's easy enough to do when it's not around, but how's it gonna be when I'm back in colonization? It might take some getting used to, especially for those who know me as an extreme meat aficionado, but as I write and further develop my beliefs on living in a good way, I've really got no other choice.

I do not believe in keeping my food in captivity. It's not healthy for them, and it's not healthy for me. Animals are meant to be free, they are supposed to eat a diverse diet of the wilderness, not a limited supply of whatever happens to be growing in the fence. Obviously the fake-fed Corn cattle are not approved, but unless they're free to roam like the Buffalo, grass-fed beef is still not gonna make the cut on this butcher's block.

As I more clearly understand the relationships between Sun and Earth and plants and animals, I also realize the importance of consuming the purest vibrations possible. I'm less worried for my physical health, and more urgently concerned for my vibrational connection to the planet, though the two are connected in more ways than I could possibly imagine. Eating dumbed-down food that ate dumbed-down food, has only one logical conclusion as to its effect on my own capacities.

And aside from the physical, mental, and spiritual health aspects of it, and the fact that the meat market is the second highest contributor of greenhouse gasses, surpassing even the billions of personal vehicles clogging the highway, I simply do not morally believe in locking my family in a cage. I feel a deep connection to both the plant and animal nations, a literal feeling of kinship, one that many of my brothers have lost sight of as they've been forced to adapt to colonization. I understand that the Buffalo are gone, I understand that store-bought burgers are the closest facsimile and one of the more filling sources of protein and such, but I can no longer contribute to the demand for fences. I certainly cast no judgements on those who still eat it, I get it, I love meat too, and I am lucky enough to travel in circles that provide the opportunity for a diet of fair game.

Within the cage of colonization, it would certainly be tough to find an adequate alternative, the tempeh was really good, but it was no meat. And honestly, a lot of the meat alternatives are filled with other stuff that's not good for us either, or her. But how'm I ever gonna get enough protein and stuff? Oh yeah, bugs. Except that even if you did cut back to only eating animals that you plucked from the scraps of nature left in your neighborhood, the colonized world is so full of pollution, that the purity of their bloodline is probably up for debate.

It would be tough for me to offer a colonized solution other than abstinence, which is why my solution is to escape colonization altogether. It is the only way I can retain whatever sanity I still have left, for many reasons, a big one most certainly being the food. Even if I completely gave up meat, it would be tough to feed myself without creating a trail of plastic packaging in my wake. I can no longer pretend not to notice the impact of my personal food consumption. I dream of a world where we can enjoy the abundance of diversity without the spoilage of excess, but we're not there yet, and giving up while I resign myself to the system being the only option, is simply not an option.

The only part of this personal sacrifice that I haven't figured out yet, is how I'm going to cook at camp. This is an individual choice that I've made, even if I may not feel much choice in the matter, so I have no intention on imposing it onto others. We are going to have colonized meat in the kitchen and I am going to be preparing it for my family. I don't have any moral dilemma in the actual processing of it, I can still butcher it and fry it and all that good stuff, I haven't gone soft or anything, but how in the world am I going to make it taste good without tasting it? Burgers, steaks, and chicken, no problem, I don't season-to-taste those anyway, but I'm not talented enough to wing it without a little last minute spicing things up.

We'll see I guess, either I'll figure it out, or my quality control will decline, or I'll have to make an exception to my ethical code in order to retain my kitchen standards of mediocrity, but that seems like a slippery slope of bacon tasting to me. I'm not worried about it, my heart will guide me in the right direction, especially once I've intensified its connection as I cut loose a little more of the fat holding it back.

*******

We were only a couple of days away from Ben's, where I bet I can shake up my protein portions with a Woodchuck or something, but for now, some fresh made fireside tortillas would have to wrap up the rest of this trip. I navigated us to the most epic national forest campground, way out on a peninsula, it was so cool that they even wanted to charge us rent, can you believe that? The fee got you a concrete parking spot and a metal ringed fire pit, neither an amenity I prefer over the open Earth, so we backtracked and found an access road with a better view anyway.

Got up and went on a hike by the lake, was pretty sure I'd identified some Lamb's Quarter that woulda been great on last night's tacos, but then our attention was diverted like a cattle crossed creek bed. There was trash everywhere. Bunch of styrofoam too. It's certainly a tough one to escape, there are enough polystyrene cups on the planet to circle it 500 times, and it floats in water and wind as it pours methane into the air, unless some animal just chokes on it instead. It's toxic to us too, the styrene leaches into our hot coffee, and without the timeline for a proven track record of devastation, it was originally determined to be "reasonably anticipated" to cause cancer. And now we know that it does.

So at least california should be able to ban it, and occasionally they do, and even new york managed it once, until the cahoots of recycling firms and plastic manufacturers put their footprint down. Progressive places have been prohibiting plastic shopping bags and plastic straws, both are super bad for the environment as they've been found in the stomachs of the deepest sea, and other toxicities of the cities are slowly breaking down our ideas of planetary takeout. But it's not happening fast enough.

My most recent visit to colonization found a friend touting the convenience of single-serving plastic packs of olives, and then they opened four. Or the ethical cage-free eggs, available in single-serve two packs. Or a giant bag of individually wrapped oreos, so that they'll be nice and crisp when you mush them up in your Cow's baby formula. Food is a primary component of community, but yet they've got us all wrapped up in individual serving sizes.

But I'm a single guy, living alone in an efficiency apartment, I work all day, and commute across town, I don't have time to cook, or to buy in bulk, so I'll just grab a bite to eat on the way home, it's cheaper anyway. We live in a single-serve society, as we each fill our cabinets with the commodities of convenience, because it's all they've left us time for. Gotta work real hard for the system, that way you can grow up and buy your very own house, and car, and credit card debt, and we'll be happy to extend your sentence as we lock you away in the cubicles of the colony.

The entire scheme of colonization is founded on the strategy of divide and conquer, and from its very inception, they have been dividing the people across borders, across party lines, across racial tensions, across the class system, across fences, and they've so successfully conquered the planet that they've convinced billions of us that we're all alone.

Humans are communal animals, we're meant to live in community, as did every single indigenous culture on the globe. We're not the strongest, or the fastest, and I'm not all that convinced that we're the smartest, but we are highly evolved at hanging out. We are social creatures, society is natural, it's civilization that isn't. We didn't divide the labor so that we could extract the most equity, we followed the pulls of our hearts and came together to make magic moments of manifestation. A community-based community lives in a world of abundance, even on the poverty-stricken rez, they may not have much of your made-up dollars, but there's an undeniable web of cosmic coincidence enriching all who simply believe.

The community of abundance is built on the fundamental concept of sharing, there's plenty to go around, what do I need extra for, here, have another. Food is plentiful, though it does take many hands to process a Buffalo, or to gather Buffalo Berries, so good thing we happen to have a whole tribe at the ready. We all have our own unique skillsets, and as we work together to improve the entire family's quality of life, our interpersonal relationships strengthen the web of human consciousness. Folks are far more capable of far more tasks than the average commuter, though that doesn't mean that there is more work to do, it only means that each individual's work actually benefits those that they love the most. And as every-one brings their own perspective and expertise, the evolution of experience reaches a new level of common-unity.

This is how it is supposed to be done, this is how we are supposed to grow, it is how we are supposed to live. And it is how we best learn. We learn by experience, by being immersed in a living environment of planetarians, and a lifetime of life lessons prepares you for anything that life can throw at you. And mom and dad might not know all that stuff, but that's ok, because you are not locked in your bedroom until they come home from work, too tired to play. You are the child of a tribe, of uncles and aunties with the energy to do stunts and crafts, grandparents to share recipes and fishing stories, and with the strength of the community, the community becomes strengthened.

But out in that other world, we sentence the formative years to a strict regimen of boxes and books and the indoctrinations of how to succeed in a left-brained society. Forget the fluorescents and cubical corners, and the outright lies in american history class, the entire foundation of colonial education is designed to homogenize individuality and inflate the importance of an individual income. Competition not cooperation, and you better be better than the rest, that way you can rise above and get approved for a student loan. All kids learn in different ways, so instead of letting the natural flow of life figure it all out, we'll just pick a way that doesn't work for any of them, and force them all to follow our strict guidelines. Only those whose brains we are able to wash, will move on, the rest will be marginalized and looked down upon, as we bus them up the river to the phone factory, and our class system has now graduated to individualism 201.

Everything our left brain learned about the material world leads us to strive for accumulating material wealth. Your own personal material wealth. Your private property. A great big house, a fancy car, lots and more and stuff and things, and gotta get get get a bunch more junk to save for another sometime that we might need it. The latest greatest pocket-sized technology convinces us that it fosters further connection, though a single stroll for espresso will reveal that the entire world seems to be lost in a world of their own. And with everyone contained in the walls of separation, left to commune with the community through a mass-marketed hotspot, it seems that the now has a stranglehold on the inflation of retail consumerism. And they say to vote for what's best for you, that's all that matters out there, sure, the rest of the world is suffering, but don't you want to save the most money on all the taxes we're gonna charge you for that house and car?

Or they squeeze you into a loft in downtown colonialsburg, cram you onto an underground train where no one will even look you in the eye, and sweep you through the supermarket of convenient single-serve packages. Gotta stock each apartment cell with food, and heat, and water, and of course electricity, all of the fundamentals of life, and only in this backwards world of abstract language, could energy efficiency describe the insane wattage required to fuel our fractured state of separation. The world is a dark and scary place out there, no way for broken humans to survive, so just take a number, because that's all you are to us.

*******

No, the Earth is an abundant cornucopia of life and love, it has been for millions of years, and it still is, right now. You share a tipi for a winter, and you begin to intimately understand energy efficiency, and the advantages of communing around the common fire. The projections of human consciousness are a powerful force, and the reality experienced by individual mindsets can vary greatly, especially when subjected to the traumatic conditioning of a conquered culture. The societal structure of scarcity is not rooted in the material Earth, it is a purely human construct that has been used to control the masses for thousands of years, and only because we are willing to believe it, does it manifest itself into our lives. If you harbor the fear of going without, then you'll hoard more than your fair share to compensate, and you've personally fulfilled the prophecy of self-importance. And the more who hide away, the drier the desert gets, and the cornucopia spirals towards it's infinite conclusion.

But Edenistic abundance is simply a state of mind, and of heart, and if you flow through the world as you give it away now, the miracles of manifestation will fuel your eternal expedition. This is not a joke, or an idealist proposal for an intended community, I have lived this lifeway for the past two years. I saw it bloom into the most magnificent spiral of connection in Standing Rock, and it inspired me to commit the rest of my days to spreading the doctrines of abundant love. I've lived it on the rez, in the heart of the deepest poverty around, and yet we never went without. The family was always there with everything they had, and worked together to honor the land as she provided all that they needed, and anyone who showed off with more than the rest, was looked down upon, not idolized. And I've been travelling freely all over the place, without a dime in my bag, never once have I gone hungry, and often I find myself in the face of extravagance. A lifeway not caught up on individual income, makes possible a myriad of ways to experience the abundance of living.

But that abundance begins to fade with each step into the confines of the cage. The deeper you get wrapped up into this worldwide web, the less perceptible you become to the wild, to the free spirit of the Earth, and the more you become dependent on the reading material of the machine. I absolutely feel it when I visit that other world, it takes all I've got as I pray and sing my way through it, and even in that concrete jungle I somehow manage to manifest an organic miracle or two.

The money's the worst bit of it though. It is the material mechanism for the creation of the scarcity scare. It enables this ridiculous lifeway to make sense to the commoners, who are the most oppressed and imprisoned of them all. It only works because they've convinced us to believe that it works, even the notes themselves are littered with propaganda of the patriarch, and I personally believe that there is some sort of black magic at play. An entire civilization has been perpetuated in the pursuit of financial wealth, at the cost of life, and somehow I sound like the crazy one.

I can't even stand to touch the stuff, and I feel a pulse of negativity when I do, though I'm still willing to believe that it's just me. But what I feel when the energy of money enters my psyche, that is a very real thing. I am quite comfortable traveling across the country without a wallet, but the moment that five dollars is pushed into my pocket, I begin to feel the urge to hoard it. That may still mean spending it, but I start to feel like Gollum as I count my precious pennies. And most likely I'll just spend it on food, something that should be free, healthy, and abundant anyway, but all I can afford is an individual slice of pepperoni, the pizza with the absolute least amount of personal love that I've eaten all solar cycle.

Our society may be hooked on the additives of convenience, but that is simply another side effect of an underlying condition, the fear of going without, not-enough-a-phobia, and the root of the problem is our undeniable addiction to the dollar. It creates class division and makes room for the 'mine' mentality, it dwells in domestication and corrupts community, and as it permeates my periphery, I start to feel the scarcity creep in as the abundance begins to fade. It rots the brain and corrodes the heart, and pushes even the straightest arrows to bend under the peer pressure of its intoxication. It is the trigger of a downward spiral, as is the bottle in my brother's hand, or the single smoke that sends me walking to the store for another. Our society is strung out on the worst poison of them all, and only through the conditioning of an entire people, can a civilization of functioning addicts convince themselves that nothing is wrong. Hello, my name is DJ, and I'm a recovering capitalist.

I'm only a couple of years removed from the glitter of big city life, and was most recently considering relocating to LA, as I sold my soul to the commercialized world of colonial indoctrination. My sobriety is recent, and even through my shield of conviction, I can feel the wounds of my condition grabbing at the strings of material attachment. And I was already on the fringe of anything considered mainstream, so I must remind myself of the comforting walls of convenience that facilitate the denial of global domination.

And although I don't allow the grip of greed to weigh down my navigation, I know that pockets still burn as they follow the hearts of adoring fans. People spend money on me. I try to stop it as much as I can, and plead to prevent the purchase of something brand new, but I can't do much in the way of refusing a fill-up.

I recently shared a meal with some traveling companions, and somehow the conversation worked itself to the disgusting table talk of my gut feelings over money. I kept digging at the uselessness of the control mechanism, and its ability to destroy everything it attempts to turn into gold, and I offended a dear friend. They were feeding me because they support my path of privileged poverty, but they were doing so with hard earned money, and they had sacrificed their genuine lifeforce in exchange for what I consider a worthless wad of disposable paper plates.

I stand by my beliefs of surviving on belief alone, but I must practice the humility to understand that we all walk our own paths, I can't know that Unci Maka isn't working through the systems that we've locked her into. And I can't be eternally grateful for this life of abundance, if I create rifts of negativity around those who are simply acting as conduits of manifestation.

So be prepared to defend your divestment from the money market, to receive ridicule from that other world, but do so with grace and compassion for those who have yet to break free of the cashier's cage. And learn how to accept a gift, even if it's not exactly what you were hoping for, it's quite customary to not deny a single moment of personal presents. I still can't stomach my acceptance of money, not sure if it's something I should work on or not, but I'll take a pouch of Tobacco whether I smoke or not, and I'll eat a meal provided by the love of the universe, even if there's a fence around the kitchen. But please don't box it up in styrofoam.

*******

We couldn't just leave the intoxicating litter in good conscience. We started to pick it up, but realized quickly that we'd never be able to carry it all. We made a few piles to pick up later, and then we hiked to the privately managed ranger station rental booth, to see if we could rent a trash bag or two, or six.

"You want to pick up trash? Just for fun? Well, ok, I guess." You'd think they'd never had anyone camp here who actually cared about the forest. And maybe not, might have just been the motorsporting fisherdudes who probably threw half of this stuff out here to begin with, though, it seemed that most of this junk had been pushed ashore from a recent flood. "Yeah, it was a big one, water was up above the whole campground. Had a bad one last year too, got no idea why they seem to be getting worse and worse though." I gotta pretty good guess.

The lake was manmade, and there was a whole town at the bottom, post office and all. Nice that at least it was a colonized town this time, though I suppose that's just because they already burned the original villagers. But why'd they flood the town just to make this campground, didn't they know that some good God-fearing white folk lived down there?

Oh, I'm sure they gave 'em some notice of the eminent domain, and besides, it was all to save an even bigger community of tax paying americans. The dam had been built, to prevent the nearby riverside city from flooding. Yep, the natural water cycles of rise and fall just weren't good for business, especially with the mysteriously increasing tendency towards rising up. So they built a dam, displaced a town along with the water, and now the white trash floods the shore with every big rainstorm.

What are they gonna do when the dam's not enough? Or when it breaks under pressure and a tidal wave nullifies their property tax? Don't they understand that the water is going to continue to rise, and that they're not going to be left high and dry? I don't think they do. I think they're in denial. Their governor probably told them that global warming wasn't happening in their state. Or their president. I think they'll continue to go about business as usual, until the river engulfs them completely.

They'll probably try to rebuild then too, but eventually we'll reach a point of no return. Once it's not just an isolated event that they can setup a fema camp at, once it starts to hit every major american city at once, at least those that are conveniently located near the water, it's going to quickly become a national emergency that the nation won't be able to do a thing about. And with NY, LA, DC, miami, boston, baltimore, seattle, houston, philly, and the bay area all under water, even if they could manage some government assistance, it ain't gonna be coming to your neighborhood.

There's a reason that there's a vast disproportion of high-ranking military retirees that have taken up residence high atop the ozark mountains, they've seen the maps of the projected coastline of tomorrow, and half the country is under water. And they say it'll happen quick. There's a slow increase for now, but we'll hit the tipping point of climate catastrophe and all hell will break loose, though I guess all that water might cool it down a bit. You can deny global warming all you want, I don't care, it just seems idiotic when we can see it happening all around us. And if you look at the temperature trends since the beginning of the industrial revolution, it's pretty obviously a real thing.

But you're right, even I claim that the planet goes through natural cycles of hot and cold, for all I know this is all according to plan, whose plan I'm not sure, but this could all be perfectly natural. But that should be even scarier to those living in a city within a flood plain. If this is a natural cycle beyond our ability to alter, then there's no way we can do a thing to stop it, and this global flood is going to be even worse than any manmade one could ever be. No amount of changing our ways will slow it down, and neither will pretending that it's not real, so I sure hope your glass house floats.

Now there's an idea, a floating city in a world of water, though one wave to the crowd and it'll obviously capsize quicker than the movie did. But John's idea was cool, he wants to build a boat out of plastic bottles and float down the mississippi, or what the Ojibwe called the Misi-ziibi, as he filters the water of the "great river." I filled him up on the Lovewater truck and we had a plan, but I wonder if you could use plastic bottles to prepare a town for liftoff.

I think I'm done thinking about it, I believe that the cities are a lost cause, and we need to begin evacuating them as we figure out an alternative. We need to clean up our mess, and not make another one. And even without the impending doom of a promised flood, cities are the biggest centers of vibrational disconnection, by far. We've already been over my belief on that one, as well as my acknowledgement that there is much cultural awesomeness to be experienced as well, so we just have to figure out how to build the best of both worlds while we still have a world to do it on.

*******

I got an idea, and those are normally pretty fun, right? So, one of my bigger beefs with city life is the food supply, it's simply not ok to pack in millions of people and then import food from millions of acres of outsourced agriculture. It's not sustainable for the planet, and it's just not healthy for you, either. Eating local is the only way, it gets you the purest solar vibrations, it burns less fuel to get it to you, it tastes better, and it's fair to those who live in the ecosystems that you'd otherwise have to plow into cornfields. So once we have the greater metropolitan area on board with localizing our food supply, as well as relocating our arts district to higher ground, we just have to find a spot capable of growing food more centrally located in the country.

And now that we've stopped the need for ninety million acres of exported ears, there happens to be an abundance of unoccupied flatland, perfect for building the cities of the future. We could house our cities in the old cornfields. Sure, sounds ridiculous, what urban dweller wants to live in a nebraska cornfield, but are they gonna wanna live in the flooded sewer swamp of seattle? And it's not going to be a cornfield anymore, it's going to be a vibrant cultural hub, with all of the amenities worthy of keeping, and all of the city folk that also relocated. Guess what, that city you love so much, was just plants and stuff before it got paved over. Nebraska can be the next new york, it's not the location, it's the scene, and this scene will be above sea level.

Now, obviously I'm not talking about concrete and parking decks here. We'll have to develop our city planning to work within the parameters of life on Earth. We'll spread ourselves out a bit, but there will be way less of all that other nonsense just wasting space. Our dwellings won't be as packed in, and not as permanent, but they don't have to be tipis either. We can develop a way of life that gives us space to be free, a community to entertain us, and a checkerboard of uncaged food sprouting up throughout our grassy expanses. The most concerning bit of it all, is that the cornfields are toxic with chemicals right now, but I'm assuming that once monsanto's profits are no longer pictured, that we'll be able to clean up their mess in no time.

And the dirtbag builders could provide the construct for an Earth-based community. Earthen homes, built by packing soil into bags, stacked in an iglego fashion, coated with cob (clay, sand, straw), and enjoy. Temperature is regulated by the constant stream of our mother's vibration, and a circular structure is conducive of her flowing cycles. Multiple domes can be linked to provide the space for comfort, doors and windows and that kinda stuff can still be installed, and the unobtrusive design is virtually windproof, as the rising tides of sharknadoes tear across the plains.

This fabrication of the future has a long history of success, and a quick googling reveals many architectural wonders, and all within the guidelines of living a low impact way of life. The whole village can be constructed without a single negative emission, a convivial shovel is more than adequate, and even as permanent as this dirt dwelling may seem to be, it's long-term effect on the landscape will ride away with the winds of change.

It may be a bit more work than leveling a forest, and gassing up the bulldozer, and mixing a yard of concrete, and convincing an entire culture that destructive construction is the most noble of slave trades, but we'll come together as a community and build community. Our homes will be directly connected to our home, and every vibration that permeates the walls of our unity, will be of an organic nature, instead of the malevolence of the machine. The whole village can be concentric to our central sacred fire, and a dirt worshiping sweat lodge, and probably even a cob constructed frybread pizza shop.

It's just another idea for the idealist, and of course there'll be tipis involved too, as well as the infinite designs of living in a good way. Once we no longer build our concept of progress on the fallacy of profit, we will be free to innovate an endless array of ways to rejoin the circle of living. And we'll have tons of food, it'll be everywhere, even growing in the soil of our rooftops. With the rising waves of crop failure and climate disasters, the planet will be riddled with ecological refugees, and we'll be among them, so we might as well get the guest room ready.

I think this could also be a possible solution to another global hunger issue. The starving kids in africa. We can't keep sending larger and larger supplies of food over there, as their population for some reason continues to explode, even if it only costs you thirty cents a day. Their population has to find equilibrium with the food able to be grown locally, just like everyone else, it's as important for their health as it is for ours.

Now, once we stop sucking the land dry of resources, they'll have a much easier time, but it still might not sustain everyone. I'm not going to force anyone to relocate to a special land that I made reservations on, but we could offer up some of our new cornrow culture to any who wanted to ride the rising waves of immigration. This would alleviate the demand for us to interfere in their homeland security, plus it might help to reconnect the african american community to the african part of their stolen heritage. And if your thoughts are that you don't want all those foreigners immigrating to the land that your ancestors immigrated to first, then I got nothing for ya, there is no room for close-minded bigotry in the world I'm dreaming up, sorry.

*******

I'm sure I haven't thought it all through, obviously, it's really just an idea to get a conversation started, but it sounds way more feasible than pumping all of our water to china. The times are changing and the tides are rising, that's simply a fact of nature. Our liquid planet is becoming even more liquid, and any insistence on keeping up this charade of permanence, will only end in further disaster for those unwilling to acknowledge reality.

I personally don't even want to step foot into a city, but I go wherever I'm called, though I assume that I'll not be stationed with a good view of the tsunami. I'd prefer to live a quiet life in a treetop tipi and not concern myself with the lost cause of colonization, but I understand that would be defeatism, and I'm not going to inspire much hope with that approach.

I believe that were humanity to awaken in time, that it would not be too late, so I will spend the remaining time that we do have, trying to coax you out of slumber. It's tough to imagine that we can change our ways enough to make a difference, though I'm not hip to all of the cogs that Unci's got in the works, but I still think that any shift in the way we think of the planet will be vital in rebuilding her future.

After the devastation hits, we will need to understand what went wrong, and we will need to have learned from our mistakes. We will need to pass down a tradition of harmonious living, one that will ensure that the future generations don't simply follow in our footprint. Massive changes are coming, I'm not seriously trying to stop them, I'm just trying to prepare us the best I can so that we don't absentmindedly order another round.

Our planet's gonna be just fine, she'll shake it off like any other morning, and I'm confidant that humanity will get through it as well. Life will be drastically different, but those that survive will adapt very quickly, and soon enough we will once again live a magical life of abundance. I sometimes come off as a lunatic convinced of the end of the world, but I am far from it. I have seen visions of the future, it is beautiful, and it is going to be an incredible experience for all that attend.

Honestly, I can't wait, I'm just doing the work I've been assigned to ensure that I get a ticket, and I think there's still a few left if you're interested. And as we spent our morning picking up trash, there was no where else we'd have rather been, especially once we realized that today, was Earth Day. What a coincidence.

*******

Our journey was nearing completion, and it had proven to be the best one I've ever had, although the last two hadn't been much in the way of competition. We'd adventured off-map, off-grid, and even off-road at times. It was our last night of camping, or that's what we assumed at least, you can never really be sure about that one, so the most we could hope for was a really epic spot.

We followed a sign that led us super high up on a gravel mountain road, dangerously steep, and then we passed some kind of fundamentalist compound. These freaking anti-government wackadoos were probably more dangerous than the grade, so we slid back down and kept on trucking. It got dark on us, but I got us to a national forest and we snagged the first little side road that we almost missed. We'd already eaten on the drive, so we just passed out in the jeep, then I woke with the Sun and got out to pray.

We'd heard the river nearby last night, but there was no guessing how awesome of a campsite we'd stumbled upon. We were in the first space of a huge expanse of riverside camping, easily enough for fifty people, perfect for a cross country trip of the gas tank rebellion. I stepped out to the water and realized that just twenty yards down, was the junction of two fairly sizable waterways. I hopped the stones until I made it to the exact spot where I could see the two flows swirling together, offered some Tobacco and a prayer, as I stuck my hand down into the water to share my vibration. I took seven handfuls to drink, offering sweet nothings to each one, and assuring them that the water protectors were on the job.

*******

The earliest writings of humanity came from a land of two intersecting rivers of fertility just like this place, the Tigris and the Euphrates, also known as the fertile crescent, thought to be the birthplace of man, but perhaps just the birthplace of man's permanent mark on this world. They may have written the book on forgetting to remember, but languages take a long time to develop, as do complex societies, so to assume that somehow they evolved into humanity overnight, well, it seems a little cro magnon minded of you.

Most of the stories of the judeo-christian books of moses, or the torah, were based on or complete replicas of these original stone-written tablets of the sumerians. No problem or anything, it's way past the statute of limitations for plagiarism, and they were good stories that were certainly worth passing down to future generations. They attempted to provide a basis for how to live in a good way, which they were noticing was becoming more and more difficult, ever since they invented agriculture. And then civilization. And then the patriarchy.

It seems that back before the advent of agriculture, the role of women in the community was unarguably of the highest importance, and therefore they were held the most sacred. Men hunted and did other manly stuff, and women did basically everything else associated with feeding and nurturing the tribe. It was only after agriculture and the domestication of animals started up, that men now had all of this extra time saved from the hunt, and as they put their sweat into the fields, they cultivated the concept of ownership. Private property. A legal right to control a living planet, and this included the women, who were classified as property of their husbands under the new sumerian law. Just like how women were owned under the foundation of america's earliest makeup.

Men also now had the time to invent time, and the voting rights to construct the first political system, a contrived collection of policies meant to 'govern' the freedoms of the people as it stifled their ability to come together, which from day one seemed to be conveniently built with a bias towards men. Men held every position of power in sumer, whose name literally translates to "Land of Civilized Kings."

They practiced a blend of paganism and monotheism, I'd imagine that it blended over the same period of time that they practiced oppressing their women, and they eventually birthed a fellow named Abraham. Abraham went on to be the inspiration of christianity, judaism, and islam, which explains why they all share many of those classical myths first written in stone, including a strong hatred of their spiritual cousins. They, of course, practiced pure monotheism, to properly pair with their monarchy, as they also practiced murdering pagans. And each other.

But the real messed up part, was that their all powerful King God, Yahweh, used to share the throne with the divine feminine, Asherah. God had a wife, and she was worshiped equally to the father, which made the control-seeking men jealous, just like their manly-imaged God, so they edited her out of the bible. Well, not completely, she's still mentioned in the aptly titled Book of Kings, as well as countless relics that contain prayers to the power couple, at least until the son showed up to usurp the throne.

A couple of the Abrahamics had some male superheroes that came along and said to love thy enemy, as they denounced private property, yet somehow these religions still managed to convince their followers to invade foreign soils and take what was somehow rightfully theirs, as long as they tipped the church when they were done. And the king.

As different as these three incredibly similar powers of global domination were, they did manage to retain at least a morsel of their common ancestry - they were still more than happy to oppress, suppress, and depress their women. By now, the women were forced to believe that their God-given role on this Mother Earth, was that of subservience. All of the men running the church, the businesses, and the government agreed, and if anyone had the notion to think otherwise, they would burn in hell.

Or they could burn on Earth if they preferred, as did anyone who attempted to speak to her directly, without going through the proper channels of the patriarchal hierarchy. The kings and popes and priests and boys all got along just fine, as they raged war and waged the machines, and their firepower began to dominate over the peaceful prayer pagans in protest. And still this continues today, not a myth, I was there. They shot at grandmothers in prayer. And laughed about it.

*******

Men are keepers of the fire, women of the water. Men control the world, women are told to shut up. The globe is overheating, our water is trashed. Any questions?

Man isn't inherently evil. He isn't inherently broken. He isn't a natural born sinner. But when you're conditioned to believe these things, as you're told that you're not only in charge of the planet, but also over the women, the whole world begins to spin out of balance. A six thousand trillion metric ton marble traveling at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour, would probably seem to be a bit broken if it had this kind of off-kilter balance issue, might even wobble a bit. And if you've been told that the magic garden is gone, and the only option is to plow more of it away, then you've got a classic example of a self-fulfilling prophecy on your hands. Because of our suppression of the women of this world, and our close-minded refusal to let them speak to God directly through the water of his finest creation, we have allowed the profiteering patriarchs of the planet to nearly drive it off a cliff.

But never fear, Unci Maka is here, and just how the revolutionary new eco-friendly single horsepower vehicle of the future wouldn't run off a cliff, neither will she. She seems to be gathering her troops for the greatest water fight in history, though I'd imagine that herstory has seen stronger opponents than a bunch of broken men.

Men who decided that they were in charge, even over the womb of creation, to the point that Caesar sectioned off the maternity ward and brought a new level of generational trauma into this world. Birth is meant to gently guide a new spirit into this material existence, but our dominating culture rips the newborn away, spanks him under a grid of fluorescents, takes a million snapshots of his soul, babysits him with a tv, sentences him to a one-sided education, and oh yeah, we cut off the tip of his genitalia. Geez, talk about traumatic.

The children are the future, and we're a culture who doesn't seem to care too much about longevity, so of course we destine them to fail. Our schools aren't designed to grow community-minded thinkers, they're built to indoctrinate an individualized generation of slaves for the factory floor, even down to the lunch break buzzer. Our brain circuitry strengthens with use, but they fill us to capacity with the memorization of erroneous facts, as our unpracticed abilities of connection and creation shrivel up to the wayside, but mom won't put up with it for much longer. Yes folks, she's rising up, get your tickets while they're still available, especially if you think you may be one of those prophesized in the seventh generation. Seven generations from Crazy Horse's hembleciya up on Bear Butte, but who's counting, though it does seem to coincide with what the sacred geometrists are calling 'indigo children.'

They began being born in the eighties, and now it seems that almost all of our children are exhibiting the traits of superheroes, except the ones that the government has managed to vaccinate, ritalinate, genetically modifate, or digitally vibrate. What traits you ask? Well, if you suffer from ADD as you just can't pay attention to nonsense, or if you're bored with the monotony of a dumbed-down existence, or if even at a young age you're a nonconformist and take issue with senseless authority, or if you're a freethinking old soul who's intelligent, intuitive, and a strong willed seeker of the truth as you seek to change the world, then you happen to be in luck, we can help you, and you've conveniently qualified for a free trial of the latest greatest government mandated super pill, don't worry kids, you won't feel a thing. Ever.

*******

The elders are important because they remember, the children are important because they are the future, the women are important because they have the power to nurture life, the water is important because, duh, it's water. But, why again was it that man was so important? And I only jest, men, you are super important, you are just as important as the women in fact, it is not a matter of being better than the other, it is a simple matter of balancing energies. What is better, right or left? If there is a lava pit on one side and an icy acid bath on the other, you'd very quickly see the imperative nature of maintaining your center.

Men are left-brained and women are right-brained, not a hard and fast separation between the two, but a general distinction across the spectrum of divine energies. The lefties are precise, mathematical, rational, and dissectional, as they navigate life in a linear manner. While the right-wingers just do whatever feels right, they creatively follow the pull of their hearts, not some rigid blueprint, and they see things from the perspective of the larger picture. One is not better, we would be in hot water if either gained too much momentum, or ice water maybe. And for all I know, the back and forth of our wobble has seen alternating imbalances along the way, that's certainly what the squares and circles of sacred geometry seem to suggest, as they flip through Fibonacci on their ascension to Phi.

And the sciences of the left-brain have even figured out a bit of the magic, they're so smart, and it seems that the ego is physically located in the left hemisphere, the superego in the right. Scientific proof that the left-brained architecture of civilization has inflated our ego-driven way of life, while the sensitive side of the right-brain's intuition has all but been forgotten. Again, we need both, it's why we have them, and the Red Road runs between. Our centerline is illuminated by the electromagnetic pulse of the heart, whose plasma seems to be the exact same substance that conducts electromagnetic energy through space, now that's a cosmic coincidence.

But right now, the world is being destroyed by the dominating male energy that insists on efficient profit, regardless of anyone's intangible gut feelings. Money's money, who cares about your stupid waterfall? We are divided into this consciousness of duality, but as we continue to evolve through this planetary awakening, we will see a shift into unity consciousness. We will once again be the best of both worlds, which is certainly better for the world.

Great, can't wait, but what can I do about it now? Well, eat clean, get as far away from the vibrating mechanics of civilization as possible, empower every single woman you know to regain her connection to the planet as she rebuilds her own internal sacred energy, share your own heart vibrations with every drop of water you encounter, and pray to the mother of all inventions, our dearest Unci Maka. There's probably tons of other stuff, someone should write a book about it or something, but if you genuinely seek a connection to our planet with an open heart, she's not going to leave you behind, we need all the help we can get.

*******

So I prayed to the water in this obviously sacred junction of my life, and as I finished singing a couple of songs, I got up and saw a bone that had been chewed on by a Coyote. And then another, and as I followed the trail, I saw that he left two perfectly complete Turkey wings, a sacred gift from Unci Maka. I nearly wept. They won't make an Eagle fan, but I'm not allowed to carry one anyway, so the Turkey version is exactly what a white boy like me should use to legally pray. Not that I'm that into the law or anything.

I grabbed some Sage and held ceremony, sang a few more songs and prayed a good long one for the spirit of the bird, and that of the Coyote, and once again thanked Unci Maka for every gift that she has ever given me. This has been such an incredible ride.

"Oh, morning John, um, so, hope you don't mind that I'm taking these bird parts with me..."

I had a nightmare last night. I woke up and tried to shake it back into the darkness, but this morning it was still as vivid as the other dreams I've been having, those that have already proven their significance in this world.

It started out innocently enough, I was in colonization as I was about to land a gig for my children's band, and then all of a sudden it turned dark. I was about to be taken advantage of, in a sexual way, in a violent against my will kinda way, and I was scared. I fought back, I felt that I was going to be unable to stop the advance, and then I woke up.

As a man, it's difficult to imagine yourself being sexually exploited, we live in a society that has conditioned us to be on the prowl for any action we can get. Consensual or otherwise. We've been taught that women are not sacred, that they are material belongings like everything else in this world, and that has led us to a reality where situations like my dream, are simply a commonplace occurrence in the lives of those whose forgotten roles on this planet, should be held the most sacred of all.

*******

So I gave up sex. For now at least. Though it's easier than going vegetarian when I'm alone in my tipi. I actually began a celibacy thing many months ago, which had been pretty confusing to the couple of women that I was openly dividing my time between. All of the things that had come up at Sun Dance were fading away as I spent time in colonization, just needed a couple nightcaps and stems to remind me of the work ahead. I had prayed on it a bunch, but prayers aren't meant to be a standalone cure, you have to follow the rest of the doctor's orders as well.

I knew then, that I had to write about my burdens of hurting the women in my past, regardless of what that meant for my reputation. And now I understand it all on a deeper level, I now can see how our mistreatment of women has been a direct attack on the well-being of our planet. Of our mother. How any continuation of this patriarchal oppression that I have personally perpetuated, has only intensified the energetic wounds that are killing her.

I am so incredibly saddened by all of the pain I have caused, which makes it difficult to live a life without regret. I can see the hurt I've spread into the paths of others, although I'm sure I'm still overlooking a few, and I can see the vibrational trauma that I have poured into the wounds of the divine feminine energies of the world. I cried before, for the women I've hurt, but now I share my tears with the Earth, as I pray that they can begin her healing from the broken promises of my past. Unci Maka, please help me to repair the damage I've done.

*******

I've been back at the farm for nearly two months now, it was just what I needed on so many levels, handfuls of prayers answered in one homecoming. A focus on clean, local, plastic-free food. A sober community who spend that energy learning new songs around the big drum. And most importantly, is what they hold the most important - the prayer.

As John and I pulled up to the Apple barn, we were quickly met by Ben and another close water protector who had taken my place after Sun Dance. "Hoka brother, it's time to go pray." We arrived just in time to catch the train to the big tree, where we pray twice a day. The lodge was no longer a daily ritual, the winter had cut it back to every quarter moon cycle, roughly once a week, but no concern of conforming to a colonized work schedule. And on the off-days in-between, we still offer our songs to the four directions, as we wrap our prayers around the energy flow between heaven and Earth.

This is the Grandmother/Grandfather Tree, a several hundred year old Oak standing alone in the field, and the face of each ancestor can be seen in the bark of east and west. You can feel their energy as you open your heart in their presence, but you can also feel the pain. They don't make 'em like this anymore, and all of her closest relatives were murdered long ago, her fate only spared because of her trunkated duality, which made for undesirable timber frames. Grow gnarly early.

This field used to be a forest full of trees just like this one, only bigger and straighter, but the settlers saw only the duality of a surplus of building materials, right where they envisioned the deconstruction of a cattle pasture. We all feel the pain she does, that of watching helplessly as your family is assaulted by colonization, and just as our grandmothers on the frontline did, she stands unmoved by the threats of mankind. We trust that she hears our prayers, feels our hearts, that she understands how we feel only remorse for the sins of our fathers, that we would never have allowed such evils to take place on our watch. Though, we do seem to be carrying on their legacy, as Cows are contained in order to continue the constant deforestation of her daily attempt at regrowth.

*******

And right now, as we speak to this conduit of connection, there are members of her family facing grave danger just across the mountain. And members of our own two-legged nation are throwing their bodies in-between Mother Nature and the encroaching of civilization. Those who are unwilling to succumb to the fear of making a stand, have really gone out on a limb for the protection of the planet, they have taken to the trees.

They are surrounded by the law enforcement mafia who are working for the benefit of a private corporation, who are surrounded by supporters of the treesitters, as they offer cheers of solidarity in the face of government corruption. This is not a protest of clearcut logging, nor for the water of some foreign native land, this is the frontline for the battle against my home.

The Mountain Valley Pipeline is a conduit of fracked natural gas, which releases more methane than dirty king coal, as it devastates every ecosystem it encounters. They plotted a course through the most fertile farmland, and then they waved a few dollars in the faces of those whose mama didn't raise no sell-out. So they plotted another plan, same route, but this time they would just seize control with eminent domain.

Sounds super official, and I'm sure nobody is ever happy to have their domain eminented, but it's done all the time for roads and other 'necessary' utilities of public use. And of course this natural gas is super necessary, and natural, and I'd even bet that some of those who wouldn't sell, still voted for the fracking party, they just don't want it in their backyard. Of course none of it would make it there anyway, because it's all being shipped to china. This super necessary public utility worthy of enacting eminent domain, is purely for the profit of a multinational corporation, and the governor.

So now several people have setup residence in the trees along the route, trees on their own 'private property', where they've been held up for over a month. The police have cut off incoming supplies, like food, and certain feminine products that one might need after a month or so. Starve 'em out and bleed 'em dry, I guess. They recently denied this action, the day after they arrested three people for attempting to carry up food. The governor did finally receive enough pressure to step in and require that the police feed them, and I've heard that they're sending up only the finest bologna sandwiches available. Every day that they remain in the trees, they receive massive fines that will soon require selling the land in order to cover, but luckily they have a piece of paper claiming that they own it, whatever that seems to be worth these days.

I don't guess I have to mention the way it makes me feel to hear the tout of 'private property' as our defensive line, but at least it's getting the white people involved this time, though all I can think about is "which tribe was here first?" But there's not as strong of a tribal presence here as there was back in the dakotas, and the pipe hardly has the attention of anyone in the nearby cities, so the fight is left up to the isolated country folk who are quietly being silenced one by one. There are some small grassroots organizations, but with no larger plan, they'll just crack them one tree at a time as they unzip Mother Earth. If only they had a local chapter of the water protectoring club at their disposal.

Well, I'm just writing a book, I could just as easily be doing this from up a tree. Actually sounds rather pleasant, and I could and sing and pray out loud when I wasn't writing, the cops on duty could hum along as I worked my way into their hearts, and at the very least it'd be a good ending for the book. Though I guess they might not just let me walk away with my manuscript.

Ooh, I just figured that bit out. We'd already come up with the idea for drones to sneak in food rations, if amazon can do it, why can't we? So I could just shoot out my pages on a drone, as long as they don't shoot it down. I have a hard time believing that my synchronized flight home just 'coincidentally' crossed my path with the pipe, I'm starting to feel a call to duty, so we make a plan to go visit one of the treesits over the weekend.

The weekend comes, and we've only recently heard back from one of the camps with driving directions, but my brother Charlie's been praying on it, and he thinks we should just stay put and pray some more. No one's gonna argue with advice from the great spirit, so we sweat on it, and a couple of days later we find out that the sitters we were headed to see, had come down over the weekend.

They were having a nearby press conference, so we headed into town to begin networking our way into camp, but I'd overestimated my ability to function in a crowd of people downtown. They were all on our side, though less campy and more voter registration, but all I could really do was just stand quietly in the back with my family. A younger shirt-and-tie guy gave a pretty good speech, even a threat of another Standing Rock, though the point of his whole spiel was to pressure politicians to support us, or we'll vote you out. A little different approach than I'd have been able to offer up, but I guess the fight is happening across many different arenas.

They are fighting colonization with colonization, attempting to beat them at their own game, in a system that has been rigged against the world since its very inception. There is no way to outpower the power structure, or to outgun the militarized police, there is no key to unlock the chains of our governed body, the only way to free the planet is to destroy the cage altogether.

The pyramid of oppression is designed so that it can never be flipped, and as long as each layer of oppressor clings to the shard of power that they believe themselves to carry, then the weight of the machine holds the entire thing down. It funnels the power from the lowest peasants to the single point at the top, and as it begins to consume itself, the middle-class is eaten away and reduced to communing with the bottom feeders.

The settler-descended holders of entitlement are beginning to feel that their human rights are being violated, but this is simply the way that the system has worked all along, and it is only now that those who benefited from their place in the colonizing contraption, are experiencing the short end of the nightstick already known intimately by the marginalized. A vote won't fix it, every leader we've ever had was in on it, and they were never really in charge anyway. The machine is consuming our planet, us included, we must stand up and face the evil head on.

Then an old school radical somehow singled me and Charlie out, maybe it was the obviously camp-worn facades that we permanently don, and he asks, "Let me ask you boys something, why are you fellas out here at this event?" Without really thinking, I rattled off, "Because I have dedicated my life to protecting our planet, our home, our sacred Unci Maka." A look of flabbergasted approval, and a glance towards Charlie elicited a response of, "same."

*******

This dude had also been to Standing Rock with his veterans group. He went on and off about infiltrators for a minute, which always makes me assume infiltration, but Charlie cleared him for take-off. And he was down with some action, though he was gearing up for the fight against the ACP, the Atlantic Coast Pipeline, yet another fracked natural gas pipeline carving through our mountains, and this one's been rerouted to cross through north carolina. Opponents of it will claim that this one is just for profit too, but with it crossing thousands of headwaters of several states' water supply, I obviously know that there's a far more dastardly motive at play here.

The path of total destruction is aptly named the "incineration zone", a 2,000-foot-wide swath of explosive clearcut, continuously poisoned to prevent the regrowth that might actually prevent a landslide election, and of course it all culminates at the compressor station in a low-income black neighborhood. It's crossing tons of mountaintops and flowing down ridiculously steep slopes, so much so, that every pipeline corporation refused the contract, except for the firm with a firm history of failure. Good thing we don't really need the fuel anyway.

The proposed pipe is part of the blueprint of Dominion Power, a nomenclature that properly describes their attempted takeover of Earthly energy, and they've enlisted the equally lawless backup of Global Security. It seems that they're attempting to order a new world of 'global domination', as they install the infrastructure of planetary oppression. The privatized police of the world, which means that no local jobs were created, as does the import of treecutters from several states away. No one locally would sign up for this work, even those who prioritize economy over ecology can see no need to brutally force this pipe into place, and especially since it's all being exported.

Dominion already exports fuel, so obviously our domestic usage is covered, and now they're in a mad dash to get the rest into the ocean before the globally secured market dries up. Somehow our trumped up international policies have pissed some folks off, and now we're being cut out of the deal altogether, like how china signed a twelve year contract to buy natural gas from russia. The fracked gas is too low of quality to use in even the lowest-of-income american neighborhoods, those that we pressurize into explosive situations, and now we can't even send it to the commies, so what are we even going to do with it?

And as far as the 'man camps' are concerned, the holding facilities for an imported workforce with no local connection, those who are left to blow off steam by infiltrating the community with meth and sexual misconduct, a known place of indigenous disappearance at violent extraction points across the country, so much so, that the FBI now automatically installs a task force at each new camp just to investigate sex crimes among pipeline workers, well, they get paid either way, so who cares. The installation company is guaranteed a thirteen percent profit upon completion, regardless of whether fuel flows or not, and regardless of the rising cost incurred to secure the globe from the defenders of the sacred, as our protests only pump up their bottom line.

And the bottom line is, that putting this empty pipe dream into place will bring devastation to the land. The clearcutting of these steep grades will cause massive disruption, the waterways already affected have shown intense degradation, and the increasing amount of hurricanes have uplifted fifty foot sections of pipe as they flow into the river. Though, they only see this as proof that we have to hurry up and complete the project before it all falls apart.

And it's crossing the Appalachian Trail. It's gonna be an unprecedented depth of drilling through the core of a rock-hard granite mountain, and this portion of the project will require twenty-four hour drilling for over a year, as it trashes millions of gallons of water in the process. The AT is not a hike, it's a lifestyle, and many have styled their entire lives around this scenic overlook. Freakin hippies. So we need to get this hiking community involved, but we need to get them informed first, we need people on the trail spreading the word, and we need a camp for people to gravitate towards.

And the treesits, we need to keep them up, but we need a concerted effort. We need a basecamp that communicates between all sitting locations, and as the trees up front are compromised, we simply move the frontline back a few paces. Or I say build some treetop communities across the whole woodline. It's not just Swiss Family Robinson though, they'll be coming up to drag you down. They've hired special tree climbing arbor patrols to remove sitters, and a few private contractors have even broken protocol as treesitters rode down with the call of timber. I like the idea of going up, I'd be singing and praying for all to hear, swinging around doing resist-stunts and stuff, and of course I'd be evolving the menu of treetop cuisine as the smell of fresh frybread overpowered the teargas.

My path may very well include setting up camp, or cheffing it up at one, but I have a minimum list of amenities that I require, and they may not be for everyone. No propane or styrofoam, or at least an awareness and a genuine goal of cleaning up. Should be easy enough, though I'm still concerned that the fight is over private property, and not freeing Mother Earth. But they'll all come around as they experience camp life, though to me, that includes a healthy dose of prayer. Indian prayer.

I need a lodge, and a drum, and hey's and ha's and ho's, and that's probably not gonna work for a lot of the small town locals. No worries, it'll all work out, and I'll cross paths with the right people when the time is right. There are still tribes around here too, though I'd also want to import a few of my strong Lakota warriors, but don't let me stop you guys from doing your Jesus camp. We need all of the bases covered if we're gonna stop them from stealing home, but just remember that not only was your dude down on private property, his book also described a fifty year jubilee of giving the land back to itself.

Or we could just start with a simple swath of rewilding, a single strip of wilderness corridor that allows nature to chart its own course. A migratory highway, free of the toll taken by interstate boundaries, and a logical first step in the deconstruction of our civilized chaos. Maybe something like 2,000 feet wide, it could run all the way from the mountains to the sea, and it would serve as humanity's sign of good faith to have faith in the good of humanity. It would only be the slightest fraction of land to set free, though the entitlement of the privileged may still offer up some resistance, but we have a pretty good case of the imminent nature of returning this domain to nature.

Ah, I see where you're going with this freeway to the future, why can't we just convert the proposed path of the pipe into a land before time? It serves the good of the public interest far more efficiently than a three-and-a-half foot pipebomb built to supply a demandless market. Plenty of plots have already been threatened into signing easements, and those who are unwilling to cave to the pressures of systematic deforestation, well, wouldn't they much rather have a spring of new life flowing through their precious property values? Hard to imagine anyone choosing fracked gas over freedom, though I guess that's the precise predicament we happen to be in these days, but maybe a signing over of privilege could be the catalyst required to begin the uncaging of oppression.

It's an idea at least, and considering the vast expanse of land going with the flow of fuel, a nationwide plan of inaction could facilitate a far reaching network of interspecies travel. And maybe we could camp there too. Nature is not naturally something apart from us, we are built to be fully immersed in her glory, we are a keystone species that is meant to contribute to the propagation of the garden. It is time to reintroduce humans to the wild.

But for now, I've caught wind of a camp full of younger protectors, and they're at a pretty good strategic location, thinking I might take a trip to check them out soon. But, I can't really post you beyond that, we've caught up to current day, and currently I'm planning on doing some radical shit, so you'll just have to check out the next book for an update. It's an action thriller.

*******

All this and more went skyward as we prayed at the tree, and then we'd see the Wanbli Oyate carry them beyond. More often than not, there was a Bald Eagle in the tallest tree to the north, and many times he would hang out until just after the second round, the prayer round, and then he would dip out, to his next collection point I assume. We'd see them at the lodge too, today it was only Deer, though an Eagle-sized bird poop confirmed his presence.

Sweats have been hotter since I returned, could have something to do with upping it to thirteen stones, but I think it's more about me working through some deeper seated issues this time around. Even as I write all this stuff about escaping our egos, mine is strong, and it keeps grabbing ahold of me. I write with conviction, but that leads me down a Rabbit hole of believing that I know what's best. I don't even know what's best for me yet, how could I possibly decide another's path? So I pray a lot, try to walk with humility, and sweat is melting it back one quarter moon at a time.

But if it's this difficult for me out here, surrounded with good food and prayerful family, then how could I expect anyone to break free when they're trapped out there in that underworld of colonization? It's a tough road to walk wherever you are, attempting to remain centered between the gutters of duality, but the system is so severely biased to one extreme, that it's a wonder that everyone doesn't just fall off completely. And many do. There are so many that are barely hanging onto the edge, that it now seems like that's where they were meant to be the entire time.

We are not meant to struggle to survive as we are forced to pay for existence. We are not meant to live with anxiety, addiction, and alcoholism. We are not meant to go hungry, and we are not meant to feel pushed into slavery as we try to feed our families. We are not meant to pay to sleep on our biological home, and we are not meant to be paid for destroying it. We are not meant to lead a life of disconnection as we mindlessly fall for the illusion of progressive connection. We are not meant to breathe, drink, eat, see, or hear poisons around all those corners, and we are not meant to dislocate the symbiotic vibrations of the circle.

We are not meant to feel lost in this world, this is our home, our family, we are meant to feel empowered to follow our dreams and to find our true selves, as we discover the infinite meanings of life. There is an endless sea of consciousness waiting to be tapped into, but through the imprisonment of our minds, we have become convinced that this material world is the only one of any matter. From a heightened perspective of awareness, it seems foolish to self-impose the sanctions of working until your wheels fall off, only to celebrate a lifetime of wasted energy, as they 're-tire' you for your final drive into obsolescence.

The conventions of convenience are not designed to make life easier, they are built to breed dependence, through which they herd the happy volunteers towards the guillotine, as they milk every drop of life along the way. We are not meant to be cattle, even the Cows aren't meant to be cattle, but this top-down system of control has convinced us that the only way to survive, is to assume our roles as the middlemen of oppression.

The species of our planet are not meant to be caged. We are meant to have the freedom to follow our hearts, as Unci Maka leads us along the path of least resistance. We are not meant to hit an impassable wall as we are left to wonder what it's like out in the real world, sentenced to struggle in confinement, while we instinctively know that there are greener pastures beyond the razor wire. We are not meant to hit a dead end of evolution as we encounter the invisible fence of the border patrol, and as long as we cling to the phallic fallacy of fractionated power, we all remain in the prison hierarchy of his-story. Only once we empower the escape of those further down the chain, will the grip of our entangled incarceration release us from the mechanisms that bind our united spirit.

We must dissolve any concept of superiority from the face of the planet, as we remember that she is in charge of us, not the other way around. We must exercise our muscles of humility, as they overpower our indoctrinations of ego. We must once again find the understanding that 'us' and 'them', is just another separated state of mind, and that 'we' can only attain 'our' highest power, through the reconnection of every single vibration of life.

Those who hold the shreds of power along the way to the top, hold the key to unlocking the cells of those below them. We cannot hide behind the belief that there is nothing to be done, as we continue to believe that their struggle is not our own. We cannot deny the responsibility of our privilege, and claim that it is up to the oppressed to fight for their own freedom. The descendants of settler colonialism, must use their inherited advantage to dismantle settler colonialism. Only through the opened hearts of the oppressors, will we begin the unzipping of our incarceration, and we must realize that we are all oppressors.

The men must empower the women, the whites must empower the other ninety percent of humanity, and humanity must evolve to stand on two feet and rise up as protectors of all life on Earth. We cannot protect the freedom of the planet by fencing-in all of its living tissue, or fencing-out those who are merely trying to feed their families. We have not inherited the right to control the livelihood of a single soul on Earth, we have only been passed down this broken belief of burden, and the fantasy of our fractured fate as it fulfills its own prophecy of a broken dream.

The patriarchal demand for compartmentalization, has bagged and tagged every cell of life across the open plains of existence. The system works great for inventory control, but it is no way to live, as we watch the vitality of life dry up around us. But we are not in charge, our mother is far mightier than we could ever pretend to be, and she will be just fine. She fights back with unstoppable force, like the brambles and ivies that grow to protect overworked lands, while the doctrines of agriculture convince us of a vengeful curse. Or the carriers of plagues and disease, not a punishment from some jealous smiter of spite, but invitations of our mother as she reacts to our misappropriation of life. And she will be there to flood the fields with her conduit of rebirth, as our unwillingness to unlock the cages will only ensure our own inescapable demise.

*******

And were this field of forgotten trees to flood today, it would wash away any evidence that Cows had once been contained here. It would wash it directly into the headwaters of one of the few waterways uncrossed by the pipe. The farm is provided clear water from the gravity-fed spring at the lodge, it then flows through a myriad of fields, as it warms up and runs off into the rest of the world. The Cow pies are no Dandelion pastry, but these are strictly organic, and provide fertilization and food as they decompose.

Poop is natural, it is a building block of life, which explains the municipal foundations of sewer systems. But what is not natural, is a herd of Cows concentrating their bowels onto one patch of grass. In nature, they would be as loose as their milking stools, and their fertile crescents would be far spread and diluted into the soil. But here, we have caged their excrement, and this unnatural consistency has enabled another to thrive in the flow of the fecal fountain. The Flies.

Flies exist in nature, they are our brothers and as much a part of mitakuye oiyasin as we are, and they follow the cycles therein. But only once we constipated the bowel movements of migration, were they provided the adequate food supply to take up residence and begin their overpopulation of the planet. This can be seen most apparently in the close quarters of a Horse's stalled life cycle, where a few different species of flying pests are provided a constant stream of nutrition, and as the summer evolves, so do their populations. In the wild, their food would be spread over vast distances, and their short life cycles would ensure that every Fly didn't survive long enough to lay another five hundred eggs.

In the barn, we see the other extreme of the spectrum. There's plenty to go around, and always a new poo poo platter added to the buffet, so every Fly lands, every baby hatches, and in the one day it takes for gestation, we see an exponential explosion of populous. This is easy to visualize, because I can see it happening before my eyes, and it doesn't take much to extrapolate this same flight plan to the larger cage of the field. The breeding season continues to swelter, and I see more Flies covering the Cows, as they clearly understand the dynamics of following the herd.

This is only one of the factors contributing to our global increase of fly populations, but certainly a major one, and I'm not even living on a compact cattle feed lot. And who even knows how many cattle are captive in america? Except that it's conveniently correlated to the population of natives we massacred in order to make room for them, a hundred million. The biomass of our livestock is nearly three times that of humans, and they eat five times as much as us. An acre of mowed down forest could be producing 40,000 pounds of tomatoes, but it's only enough to grow half a cow, plenty of room for flies though.

They also increase their attention on our sedentary lifestyle, as just in the last week, they've overtaken the kitchen. Our efforts of efficiency, have conveniently congregated an all-you-can-eat buffet of captive Cows, growing gardens, an open kitchen, and a centralized bucket of human waste - and the Flies don't get a new plate every time.

Our excessive insistence on creating waste is feeding the flies of the lord, and we should be fully aware that this God-given plague of disease, is directly linked to the sins of man. It is not an arbitrary punishment from a spiteful father, it is a reflexive rebalancing act by the self-defenses of our mother, and it is the natural conclusion of living in a world of our own filth.

They are a species evolved to fill a niche as any other, and theirs is dualistic in nature. They are fully capable of cleaning up the pollution of mankind from both ends, as they consume the disease we spread upon the world, and then spread the disease into the world we consume. Murdering their weak is no solution, it only further enables them to eradicate ours, the only viable option is to eliminate our contribution to their campaign. A life without excess, is a life without waste; a life without cages, is a life without waste; a nomadic way of life has room for neither, and not a single moment is wasted.

We must release the prisoners of war against our planet, it is the only way to gain her mercy as she unleashes the wrath of her cleanup crew. This is not a biblical story of vengeance, this is simply a natural cycle of population control, but it will certainly feel like the armageddon we've been manifesting for millennia. Spirituality and nature are not two separate things. God does not exist in a fairytale. She is in everything that we have ever experienced, and once you understand this simple fact of life, it is then far easier to decode the mythologies that have questioned your faith since the beginning. It is time to uncage Eden.
I've had a running daydream for a while now, no one's really running, but everyone's in motion. I've already shown you bits and pieces of it, some of them even rooted in historical science, but just imagine the parts of it that are simply too cartoony to share. An animated kitchen in the woods, little people living amongst a symphony of singing animals, all doing their part to prepare a delicious family dinner for the entire neighborhood. Contributions of the hunted and gathered and laid and lactated, and yours truly whipping it all into shapes. Everybody's dietary preferences are a bit different, but it all comes together effortlessly as always, as long as I simply believe. And the best part about this open kitchen - you're invited.

I'll pretend that I don't actually believe in this fantasy world, but it will continue to be the model of symbiosis that I strive to create, because I know for a fact, that elements of this dream have already manifested into reality. We have only two options, to build healthy relationships as we participate in life on Earth, or to drop out of the game entirely, and I'm kinda having fun playing along.

*******

I gave up milk the other day. While I was milking a Cow. It's easy to forget where your food comes from when it's on aisle nine, but when you know which udder has the highest flow, that is true food chain awareness. I knew that I did not approve of the pasteurized pastures of industrial dairy, yet I had been partaking in it with little consideration, just as most of america prefers the bliss of ignorance. I knew that it was not healthy for me to consume, and that my demand was contributing to the need for the fences that captivated my every thought.

Being in this fenced-in paradise has provided me the freedom to truly explore my beliefs of living in a good way. I already knew that would be the case when I arrived, and I predicted then, that I would soon give up milk. My projection was met with the same disbelief that I still feel about the transition, this is the land of the best milk you've ever tasted, and the new milk Cow is even sweeter than Lacey.

I knew that I would be further discovering where my convictions lie, and that if I couldn't be ok with it here in the homiest operation imaginable, then there was no chance that I could find a cleaner alternative elsewhere. I gulped it down for weeks and milked it for as long as I could, but I knew the change was coming. I had already given up fenced meat, so what was the difference with fenced milk? I had experienced the excited willingness to exchange lactose for gluten, and I want to believe that this transaction fits into my dream of simply preparing food for another, but the fence just spoils it for me. Especially when this time around, the Cows are far less happy about the whole milking situation.

Last summer, Lacey had already been separated from her calf, so not only was she left with more time to anticipate her grain fix, it was actually uncomfortable not to be milked. I was almost doing her a favor by relieving the pressures of confinement.

But now, Lacey and her sister are both around, and each with a child, so in order to fill our pail, we have to separate a calf from its mama overnight. For some reason, neither of them like this, and we hear them scream for each other all night long, even if we do put them next door to one another. In the morning we usher in mom, who is still happy to get fed, although she holds back a large portion of her milk, until we bring her calf into a stall next to hers and trick her out of every trickle. She's trying to save some for her baby, but if we can help it, we take as much as we possibly can. She will of course make more, and she is at last returned to the calf-napped little one, for another day at least.

At one point, we had them in a closer field, and our only option to separate the cream was to put the oversized calf into an undersized crate for the evening, so we tightly caged a not-so-happy Cow, and then mom ran from us as she jumped an electric fence. I don't think this counts as symbiotic.

We weren't fond of the crate idea either, and didn't try it again, but the biggest concern seemed to be the adrenaline taste in the milk. So there's a direct correlation between emotional state and flavor profile, and our Cows have been missing their babies all night, can't imagine that we're getting the cream of the crop.

And on my last day of drinking milk, Lacey came in on her own, but even with her back legs chained from kicking our habit, she just wasn't very pleasant to work with. I had to keep refilling her grain bucket to coax docility, it was obvious that she didn't really want to be there, and then her calf came running in like he was starving as I had to fight for a sloppy seconds.

*******

I'm not going to force an animal to put out. I was taking advantage of yet another sacred feminine energy of Unci Maka. She was in chains for God's sake. For our sake. If we were friends and she wanted this, then she wouldn't kick me off of her. Just because she is physically addicted to gluten like the rest of america, that does not give me the right to exploit her lifeforce. And at the added cost of her kid's health. She sent every signal of "no", but I just kept on molesting her with my justifications of superiority, as she finally resigned to just letting it happen. And I of course was nearly in tears, and telling her how I felt, and swearing off milk in the process. But how do I think Cows are treated in facilities where their names are simply numbers?

Far less personally, in fact, machines do most of the work. There's all sorts of gauges and dials, and they can more accurately drain every drop as they also monitor for the diseases of mad Cows. A friend of Ben's had recently progressed his technodairy with a big loan, then the lactose free-market collapsed, and now he's as bent over as the Cows are. The mega-dairies control the industry, and they stand to profit even as it crashes, for it is they, who are left to collect the shattered pieces of the few remaining family farms.

They are running a factory that imprisons my sisters, steals their innocence, and exploits their sexuality. Even here at this place, we must wean Lacey's calf off of her at least two months before she is ready to rebreed, which means that she's not ready to rebreed, it only means that we are ready. It provides us with the maximum return on investment, a factor that should never be taken into account when determining the quality of life of another.

In fact, who are we to determine another's quality of life at all? We're the ones who ruined it to begin with as we imprisoned our family, and we ruined the entire planet for those we locked out, and we cage our own species if they're not the right color, and even our own race if they don't act civilized enough, and we are the most despicable villains of all time. We are the darkness. We are the bad guys. We deserve every bit of wrath that Mother Nature can throw at us. And how can I continue to drink the spoils of the rape of my sister, just because some white guy said it was ok?

*******

So I can't. Which is easy enough, I may love cereal and ice cream, but I don't need them. But what about butter? It's the primary ingredient of both my own cooking, and the community kitchen on the farm. So what then? Just use Coconut oil? Stop using the stolen goods from my own neighborhood, and instead use the stolen goods from another's, pack it in plastic, and then ship it around the world? Well, that doesn't exactly sound right. I may feel it unethical, but at least I can personally offer some Wheat to the victim of my own crimes, instead of blindly exporting the oppression to a faceless foreigner. Still can't do it, but a serial swap to non-dairy, only leaves me milking Almonds for my Corn flake cardboard. I can't simply swap one poison for another, I have to learn how to make more with less.

I am actively on a path of removing excess from my life, which includes all imports, Coconut oil and Almond milk and dark chocolate bars, and even coffee. It is the only way to live responsibly on this planet, for me at least, but I'm not there yet. I'm only a broken man living in a broken world, gimme a break, can't I just work on a couple of these at a time?

I can't just dive into a tub of oil to replace the butter on our popcorn, I need to work on using less in general, but I can still rub down a hot pan when I 'need' to. I'm far more conscious of moderation now, I fry in the thinnest layer of lube, and I've been poaching eggs in water as I invent interesting new ways of putting it all together. Time for another evolution I guess, but first, we should recap a couple of the highlights from the last few weeks of delicious dairy delicacies in a fanciful montage of letting go, and cue sentimental music.

-Strawberry Ice Cream and Honey Cookies-

Truly handmade, I mixed up the separated cream and fruit and honey, and maybe an egg white, spread it out on a cookie sheet in the freezer, and just stirred it around every five minutes. Small batch artisan creation only. And as for the cookies, I just made something up, definitely lots of butter though.

-Super Duper Chocolate Pudding Creation-

Invented by accident, like all the greats, and the crowd was left clueless. We had some imported cocoa powder, so that was no mystery, but how had I come up with the exact consistency of pudding? Potato. Steamed Potatoes in the recently replaced vitamix, and some milk, and it whips into the creamiest plain pudding you've ever not really tasted. So add some honey and chocolate, or vanilla, or Strawberry, or can't I just quit milk tomorrow?

-Fresh Wheat Frybread-

What?! I have to give up frybread? I don't know about all that. And this stuff was delicious, it wasn't the fluffy white flour frybread of rancid reservation rations, but its slimmed down crispiness cooked in a thin pool of coconut oil was fantastic. And then we started putting an egg in the hole. But for real, I have to give up frybread?

No, but for real, no frybread? Well, how's that ever gonna work? And my top secret recipe uses canned milk, who knows what kinda process that pasture gets? I stopped putting milk in my coffee that day, but I had only picked up that habit because of this same raw milk last year. I began eating soft-boiled instead of fried, every pat of butter counts when you realize just how much cream goes into it, and it takes a whole lot of milk to get that cream in the first place.

But frybread? How can I quit milk because of my spiritual beliefs, when quitting frybread is sacrilegious? Well, I can still make it for others, but I guess the real solution is to figure it out without milk. I can make my own version of fried bread, might not take the cake at the Rosebud Fair, but at least I'll have a lot more free time to dig Dandelions, once I get fired from the kitchen.

But as a sworn officer of camp cuisine, I take my oath to serve seriously, so later that day, I happily made butter. And again the other day, I hand cranked a batch, but I was not as efficient as the colonized machine, and some cream remained in the milk. A few days and a taste test later, and we discovered that I had inadvertently invented the world's best sour cream. Couldn't do it again on purpose, better make it count, so today I spent hours in the kitchen preparing a meal inspired by a condiment, that I didn't even consume.

I was planning to actually, I was going to break my several week streak and partake in the spoils, it was technically a throwaway byproduct of butter that might not create more demand for milking, but that's not how this path works. I don't mean the insectivasivegan path, I mean my walk connected between Unci Maka and all of Wakan Tanka. I was ready to eat it, just a dollop, and then somehow my unplanned writing style summed up for me the beef I have with milk, just moments before I returned to serve dinner. Perhaps it was on my mind and that's how it came up, or perhaps it was just the encouragement I needed from the universe, as I continue my commitment to hold all of life sacred on this planet. But it sure did look good.

-Groundhog Tacos-

Fresh Wheat tortillas, roasted leg of Groundhog, Lamb's Quarter greenery, rainbow Peach salsa w/ Sorrel, sour cream (optional)

-Vegan Squashiladas-

Broccoli, Yellow Squash, Carrots, Butternut, tortillas, sauce(Tomato, Butternut, Onion, Jalapeno)

-Peach/Strawberry/Cantaloupe Pie-

Made it in the crockpot, crust with coconut oil instead of butter, and finished off the top under the wood-fired broiler. But the kicker, was the symmetric scoop of sorbet I made by vitamixing all three frozen fruits together. Mmmm....

The tacos were most excellent, even without the creamy topping, and I feel way better writing about my perseverance, than my soured conviction. But now everyone is wondering if I've gone vegan on them. Well, I'm on a path headed in that general direction, I'm moved by the same moral dilemmas that have guided so many, those that I've teased in the past as a loud and proud meatatarian. The same ridicule that I am now preparing to face, but I still eat meat. Love it. I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon, though I can't guarantee that it's not in my future as well.

But for now, if I can catch it, I can eat it. It's gonna be tough when I visit colonization, not much Groundhog from what I remember, and lots of temptations of fancy charcuteries and cheese platters, so we'll see. And Ben has shared his thoughts on accepting a meal that's offered and not looking it in another's mouth, instead simply praying with it to raise its vibration, as you raise your host's as well. Better to perpetuate a good loving energy as I visit relatives, instead of pushing my newfangled diet over top of theirs.

And on the rez, we'll pray real good for the subpar food, extra prayers to the cuisines in captivity, and we'll throw in a little understanding for their captors as they find love in their hearts. It's a bit different out there, it's not a life of excess built on the spoils of colonization, it's haphazardly pieced together with the dregs. But out here on the farm, I've been the one butchering the whole block.

*******

"Hoka brother, got a Chicken needs pluckin." He knew it was a skill I was looking to acquire, so I leapt to the task, though he hadn't even been the one to kill it. We'd been pulling a couple of Blacksnakes out of the Chicken house every few days, one time they couldn't even wait until date night was over to kick off the copulation, right there on the Chicken coup floor, romantic indeed. They'd snag a few eggs and we'd just escort them outside, I offered to fire up the grill, but Snakes are friends around these parts. Unless we're hungry enough. Which the Snake seemed to be, one day we found him wrapped around a full grown Chicken, and the next day he'd killed one, but he had to give up swallowing the prehistoric poultry after he'd bitten off more than he could chew. So, winner winner Chicken dinner.

Now, the Chickens weren't wild, although they weren't really that tame either, and they have free reign to roam around and eat bugs all day long, and Cow poop. They still get grain, and they like to sneak into the barn for a bite of Horse feed, but there is no clear fence line of separation. They voluntarily go home to roost, and I let them out every morning as I sing my sunshine song. Of course, the Sun don't shine in the baby chick house across the way, where we run a twenty-four hour light bulb to artificially grow stunted offspring chickens, but at least they're organic.

I'm still working through my beliefs on the fouls of farming. I think that domestication breeds inferiority, and that is even the case here, but as for now, my biggest dilemmas are the ethics of caging my family as I cage their food. I'm certainly on a path of calling these birds out as well, and I can't imagine that I'd trust any store-bought freedom for my range, but today, is a good day to fry.

*******

JK, we roasted it, but I did the plucking and Ben showed me how to pick out the rest. And then the next day, it was decided that the lone Guinea was tormenting the chickens beyond the tolerable limits, only we get to pluck their feathers, and only after they're dead. So her fate was decided, thumbs down, and I was the executioner.

Now would a vegan do this? I felt no dilemma. She's still domesticated, but she was as wild as all get out, and I am on a path of learning these ways, so we'll just have to wait and see how I feel about it afterwards.

I've never killed anything bigger than a Frog, except maybe a Snake in 'self-defense', or a Deer with my car, but that was all back before my realizations of relation. If you don't count the Nightcrawlers I got hooked, or the fish I strung out, I've never taken the life of anything larger than a Beetle for dinner. If I'm going to drink milk, then I need to be ok with milking a cow, and I'm not, so I don't. And the same goes here. If I can't do it, then that answers my question real quick.

But I was ready. I was prepared to take its life in a good way, as I honored its sacrifice in this sacred circle. I offered some Tobacco to Unci Maka, began a prayer song, and caught the bird. I kept singing as the vibrations got loud and a little overdramatic, I was fully in the moment and praying for her spirit, she calmed down a bit, I lowered the last verse which raised her concern, and then it was over. I prayed with more Tobacco and placed it in her mouth, continued to sing while I plucked and gutted her, added another feather to my hat, and then I ate her raw warm bleeding heart. Take that vegans.

I know the power of the heart, the power of consuming the heart, I know the strength it will give me as I commit to this walk, and I plan to continue this tradition with every sacred life that sacrifices its energy by my hand. I also know the scientific significance of eating organs, they're super healthy for us, crazy high in B vitamins, iron, zinc, magnesium, protein, and vitamins A, D, E and K. The liver is referred to as "nature's multivitamin", western doctor's even recommend them to those silly vegans before they wither away, and they were an essential component to most every meat-based traditional diet before the invasion of colonized cuisine.

The muscle mass may provide a strong foundation of food system, but we didn't evolve to eat only the choicest cuts of red meat. We've always rounded out our intake with the nutrient density of inside information, yet now we only round out our colons as we pump up the pockets of our healthcare providers, who happen to be the same corporate entities who convinced us that it was gross to eat the most nutritious bits of the entire kingdom. I'm starting to smell something fishy with this whole concept of colonial consumerism, but that's just a gut feeling, carrion.

*******

We've trapped a few Groundhogs, the one tonight was the first I'd personally undressed, perfect for my waking thoughts of Groundhog Pot Pie, and the other night I had another dream come true. Not a sleeping dream, but a manifestation that I'd already written about, one of several that have come to fruition during this revisitation to the farm.

It was actually the day our Guinea was cooked, late that night as I was up alone writing, and the kitty was fresh off the hunt, as he gave me the customary signal that he had been successful. An endless barrage of mews and meows, usually quite annoying, especially in the middle of the night, but I've come to think of it as his sacred prayer time before dinner. Thank you Unci Maka.

He's good at catching Mice, and he'll even snag a Barn Swallow out of the air, as he agrees with their chosen nomenclature, but today was a new one - he brought in an adolescent bunny. We knew he was hunting them, which I had been sworn off of because they are friends around here, no Rabbit season for me, but earlier today I told the kitty that if he caught it, I'd cook it.

I was fresh off of gutting a Guinea, not the same, but they share a lot of the same parts, and I'd butchered a few Rabbits back at camp for the infamous Rabbit Ramenoff incident. Now, kitty might have preferred it raw, could've eaten the whole thing himself, even if it was half his size. But if you come strolling into the kitchen with a fresh catch, I really have no option but to season some Rabbit.

I cleaned it all up, offered the heart to the kitty, it was his kill after all, and once the fire got hot, the delicious aroma brought him back to the dinner table. We actually sat on the floor next to his milk bowl, both of us, and we each got a plate with an even split of the most tender little legs you ever did see. Feet didn't turn out to be too lucky, but at least we got one helluva chapter about going vegan.

I cooked his a little less than mine, though mine was still extra medium rare, and I stuck the fur in the fridge to work on later. And as I write this, I now think I should make a nice little fur vest for kitty's wintertime hunts. He probably won't like it, and I'm not about dressing up our furry friends for facebook, but fashion design is certainly a skillset that only humans are capable of wasting time on.

*******

Manifest complete. I had fulfilled a dream of symbiosis. We'll see if he brings me another, though we might have to sneak it past the authorities. This dream of mine is real, it's outlandish for the animals out on the land, but I've got proof positive that unspoken partnership of symbiotic vibration is possible, and you should have heard him purr.

So what about the cows then? How can I get enough cream to let it sour for farm fresh indian tacos? I know it's possible, the Mundari are already doing it in a good way, but I'm not sure that I'm ready for my nomadicism to be dictated by simply following the herd, I do love dairy though. And I still believe that we are within the law to process grains and trade for milk, can't cage the Cow or the Wheat field, and I'm sure there's more digging into the calculations of fairsharenesss, but I think it's in there somewhere. And I know that it's uncomfortable for a Cow who still produces milk after she loses a baby, and some produce more than the kid drinks anyway, and who am I to judge their parenting habits, maybe a scoop of grain makes the whole milk family unit happier. Maybe I give the kid a scoop, as we swap lunches. We'll assume that we've reached an agreement, because without a fence or a cattle prod, that seems like the only option anyway.

So how does this work? Simple, we have a milking booth. Cows know they can come trade, it doesn't even have to be psychic communication, they are smart enough to be conditioned to where the food is, I've seen it in action, and word gets around. They step right up, they get to eat, and we get to drink. No chains, I'm assuming they won't kick since they volunteered for the position, and if they do, I retain the right to refuse service. Maybe it's local Cows, regulars, those that I know by name, or maybe it's just some travelers as they grab a bite to eat on their way through town.

We may not get our favorite Jersey Cow everyday, but that's how the cookie crumbles, especially in a fresh glass of the good stuff. And it'll all be good, because these will actually be happy Cows with good vibrations. If they don't wanna be here, they won't be. I don't want to simply addict Cows to gluten as they neglect their families, so maybe there's a limit per week or something. And if I'm getting a little too ridiculous for you, sorry, but do realize that even humans are willing to donate precious bodily fluids, in exchange for this money stuff that we've replaced food with? I'm only cutting out a few profiteering middle men.

I think this could be a legitimate option in the future, way more ethical than cages and chains and calfnapping and creek crapping and all the other stuff we do now, and those already in symbiosis with the herd, give me even more hope. But now, I've done gone and dreamt up a solar powered self-service robot milking booth. Please don't.

*******

Cheese will be a toughie, it was all I could do to resist the smoked cheddar and crackers that found there way out here, but if I can't be ok with our milk, then how could I possibly trust in a commercial dairy to provide better service? And even organic Cows are allowed to eat a third of their diet as GMOs. It looked so good though, the plastic package even felt good in my hand. I'm still gonna eat cracker stackers, just gotta whip up some kinda fancy spread.

The Broccoli was about ready to harvest, and there was going to be a bunch hitting at once, so we'd be putting most of it up as Ben's favorite Broccoli soup. The secret ingredient was milk/butter/gluten gravy, no wonder it fills you up so fast, and tastes so good. We checked on the row of forty plants, and it was time to get going, because the Worms were moving in. We don't use any sprays or anything, so bugs get on stuff, that's just part of organic living. It's no big deal really, except to those who insist on the biggest fullest fertilizerest specimens with no visible bug holes through the sheen of pesticidal coating.

Ben had a different defense mechanism though, he smushed all that he could find. Obviously I take issue with this approach, but I'm not here to judge, though I did gently remove all that I encountered and let them eat the parts that we were leaving behind. Broccoli stalks are good, and good for you, I like to cut them up like Carrot sticks... and dip 'em in honey. The leaves are good too, bitter, which is often the sign of a strong medicinal plant, and a boiling pot of Guinea broth fixes 'em right up like country style Collards. I made a pot one night, plus I'd been throwing some leaves in with the sautéed tops, though that was back when I was still using a lot of butter. Which, by the way, I've been cooking without butter for three weeks, and I don't think anyone's even noticed.

I mentioned harvesting the whole plant instead of just the top, it could continue to sprout second growths of little Broccolis for a while, but tomorrow they were gonna pull the plugs to make room for the Squash to spread out. Vegentrification was taking over the neighborhood the day after last month's rent. He agreed that those parts are good too, but we simply have too much already to deal with, and obviously the cream of the crop is the priority.

So we're just gonna throw this stuff away? The Chickens will love it, sure, but we fenced this off from the rest of the planet, and now we're not even gonna eat it? We're only taking the choicest nuggets and throwing the rest out? We grew more than we could even fill our buffet plates with, threw out the rest, and now we have to freeze the tasty green nuggets before anyone else can get a munch? Now, we do have to put stuff up for the winter, the farm doesn't put out during the off-season, and who knows what kinda transient types will stop by. But there's already a stack of uneaten Broccoli soup from last year taking up space. So, I'm sorta thinking we've crossed over into the realm of excess.

Cheers of abundance were shared, but not by me, I only saw the wasted energy in the stalks and leaves. Knowing that they were good, but forgetting about them, as we lopped off their heads in a rush to capture every last one, before anyone else could even grab a single bite. I'm sure I coulda volunteered to operate a second shift of the soup kitchen, boil a brew while I wrote about saving the day, but I didn't, so it's as much on me as anyone. But, couldn't we have just planted less Broccoli?

If we only had twenty heads, couldn't we make just as much soup with the entire plant? Isn't that what the indians would have done? I'm pretty sure they're famous for using every last part, not uprooting the headless body of their brothers as they plant the next prisoner in line. It sounds a lot more like what the colonizers did as they slaughtered millions of Buffalo, took the pricy pelts, and left the life sustaining meat to rot. Sure, they could even say that some kind of organism will eat it, so its energy goes back into the circle, but we all know those scavenging squares didn't care about that anyway. And I see the Broccoli as the same thing, feeding the scraps to another creature in captivity, is not fueling the evolution of the planet, only the collapse of the human race.

*******

The indians have a name for the crop creaming behavior of those Buffalo skinners, but I'm not gonna say it. I've pretty much always heard it as a derogatory term for "white people", but I've been told recently that it was originally a name for another indian who acted in this bad way, and that made it kind of offensive for a white person to use. Aw man, finally got a cool slur and now we can't even say it. But I've used it before, in jest, as I described my own frybread delivery, and always met with much laughter, though I no longer say it, now that I understand the origin of this racial slur.

The term means, "taker of the fat", and I can certainly see why some would have described the colonizers in this manner. The Buffalo was sacred, every single piece, bones for tools and broth, sinew to stitch leather, stomach for medicine, hide for shelter and clothes, horns poured water on the stones and the skull heard all of the prayers. And the fat was the tiniest delicacy of the lot, gotta make fried Buffalo bites somehow. So to slaughter an entire Buffalo and only take the fatty bits, it's simply not kosher. And to slaughter a million for fourth of july freedom fries, this level of excess eradicated the most prolific source of protein that our continent has ever seen. Since the dinosaurs at least.

And I know that an excuse of a small personal scale of waste is not valid, as eight billion of us add up pretty quick, so what if each of us grew way more than we needed and simply threw out the less desirable plants. Well, it goes back into the circle as it rots in our compost pile, one day destined to provide nutrients to a domesticated houseplant, though it's fate could have been feeding the next step of evolution as a hungry Deer stopped by for a nibble. He's left on the other side of the fence, watching the abandoned stalks wither away, or maybe he's wondering why we didn't just take half of the crop to cook, and leave twenty full plants behind to share. Now that's a spirit plate. Sure sounds a lot more fair to me, like my deal with kitty, and I bet that a fifty-fifty split would help the outside circle to have a little less beef with our boxed-in garden.

So you have to plant more than you need because crops fail sometimes, wonder why, but ok, and now we see that we have a God-given manmade excessive abundance. So, shouldn't we share it with the other creatures that God made and is legally responsible for feeding? Like those monks with the Bananas, can't we leave some out for the neighbors? Or those spare Sweet Potato starts, instead of getting mad at the Groundhog for invading our private property, couldn't we plant a few at the woodline? I'm sure I'd be met with a rebuttal of the Cows just eating it all, but that fenced-in defense will hold no stagnated water in this book. And as far as increasing the Groundhog population, yum.

Every time we make a spirit plate and someone thanks Unci Maka for this abundance, I cringe, which sucks during prayer. I'm certainly thankful for the abundance of our mother, I'm just on a journey of learning how deep her exploitation has been indoctrinated. Or when they pray for open borders so that humanity may travel freely, like is meant to occur across the entire surface of Unci Maka, and I very much agree, but it's all I can do not to point to the fence and ask what the difference is. Are we not an oppressive overlord who's sealed off borders to contain the lives of those who are meant to be free to roam? For personal gain. No money involved, and I couldn't stomach being here if there was, but I still see us living in excess off of the spoils of the fat takers.

And I'm a part of it. I cook elaborate meals of extravagance, and I've only just learned how to do it without taking another's butterfat. Even the process of cooking food removes nutrients, weakens vital Sun vibrations, so now we need more. Is my entire role at camp just a way to progress excess?

And some people here need to eat more than the rest, because they unarguably do much more work, but most of that work wasn't necessary, it was only pushing their own agenda of permanent superiority. Repairing fences, painting them so they don't naturally decompose, concreting holes so the Snake can't eat, weedeating the heads of my family (hey, I was gonna eat that), plowing the face of my mother, and working imprisoned Horses because that's how we can afford to live here. Damn it... I think I just realized that I can't.

*******

But this is the cleanest food I can find, vibrationally and ethically, and the most prayerful family who are allies for so many of my battles, and I'm loved and supported, and we sing and sweat, and no one has ever questioned my moneyless way of life. How can I ever cast a sideways glance at those in the system, when I can't figure out how to live in a good way, and I'm living in paradise. But it is no paradise for me, it is a farm, it is the first step of colonization, and it is a cage.

Now, I'm an extreme case, and I'm sure I've expressed just how clean of an operation this really is, and symbiotic in so many ways. Obviously in writing this, I risk expulsion, I hope it is not received as a critique on his life way, but rather a journey of me discovering mine. But I don't hold back, I write from the heart as I connect to Unci Maka, and this is where I'm at with it. I can't write any other way.

I am so very appreciative for everything that Ben and the rest have provided for me, most importantly unconditional love, which I still share for them with all of my heart. I admire his dedication to living clean and treating the planet in a good way, he's even more devout than I am in so many directions. The whole place hardly produces trash, only tiny bits of imported plastic, almost no imported food, and here I am smuggling in coffee from another hemisphere. He doesn't claim ownership, only stewardship, and there is far more land that he holds the title to, than just the little bits that he cultivates. There's only a couple of tiny fenced-in patches that feed us all, some larger fields for Cows, and the rest are areas of wilderness that will remain that way in perpetuity.

It would be a challenge to imagine farming in a more harmonious way, and I commend all that he has done to make it happen. He's pretty set in his ways, which keeps this place as pure as it has, but it also keeps him in the self-proclaimed "farm mentality" of efficiency. And I think that efficiency is the patriarchal mechanism that has commodified Unci Maka's life vibration to death. The small fenced-in patch is certainly efficient, and meager enough that it could be argued as fair share, and the organized rows are perfectly spaced for the Horse drawn harvest, which saves enough time to plant extra. Concentrated into cubits, much like the 'efficiency apartments' that store the slaves of the gridlocked cityscape, as well as the compartmentalization of our entire Earthly existence.

But without the fence, others would simply eat from the garden that we poured all of our hard work into, but they didn't ask us to do that. Couldn't I liken it to a Deer sectioning off a plot of our food supply, and claiming that they were replanting grass? We wouldn't like that. Or what about dapl fencing us out of all their hard work? But without the need to constrict our crop to the cage, and without the effects of efficiency during planting or harvest, couldn't we just plant Broccoli all around the mountain? Sure, Deer will eat a bunch, good for them, we planted more than we needed anyway, just consider it the venison invitational. And with every young buck getting fed without having to sneak into our yard, the plants closest to the barn will be reserved for us automatically.

We planted Peas in a raised bed and hung a string for them to grow taller, for efficiency, and then a big windstorm came through and broke them off as they bent at the string. How efficient. The indians would have planted them among the Corn and Squash, giving them a much more efficient structural integrity, and they would have been healthier for us too. But that's just not efficient to harvest, monocropped rows are industry standard, and agriculture is an industry, even way out here.

That's just the way it is, the way it's always been, the way daddy farmed, and his daddy before him, and this is simply the next handed-down iteration of the unquestioned patriarchy. It's a land uncorrupted by many modern marvels of destructive technology, though there's still tractors and cell phones, but his dedication to living a less impractical life, has allowed him to experience it, and has managed to preserve much of a forgotten time of simplicity. But that time that he's holding onto, was the same time that killed the indians in the name of efficiency. He of course harbors only ill feelings towards the bigoted european colonizers, holds the chanupa sacred as he walks a more spiritual path than most natives I know, and he undoubtedly feels a sacred connection to Unci Maka. But it must not be the same one I feel.

A lifetime of conditioning to see this way of life as a good way, especially compared to those in the city, but don't they share a similar conditioning as well? I have broken free from most of my indoctrinations, I think, and it's tough to see outside of what you thought you've known your entire life, especially when you know that it is healthier than most. But it's so easy for the ego to close the mind, and easy to simply continue to believe in the conditioning you've always known, and to see nothing wrong with the way that is "just the way it is."

*******

It may be the way it is now, and that it has been for a long time, but it doesn't come close to being the way it has been forever. No one will deny that there was a time before agriculture, except perhaps those that believe in a six thousand year universe, and most will agree that it began on the other side of the globe and travelled here in an invasive small pox blanket. Others will claim that the natives were already committing agriculture, that they had evolved above eating each other and had joined the ranks of real humans, but what we have here is a strawman in a cornfield.

Tribes have been cataloged by the white man as either hunter-gatherers or agriculturalists, they needed a good record since they seemed to be going extinct for some reason. The hunter-gatherers of course hunted and gathered, but so did the other tribes, and the white people, and we do it here at the farm. These are just two of the activities involved in food prep.

We know that those tribes were far more involved in the ecosystem than just outsiders looking in, but that was hard to see for the outsiders looking in. The tribes tended the wild, they manicured the garden, not their lawns. They didn't wander around as they randomly encountered stuff to eat, they knew exactly where their favorite patch of Lamb's Quarter lived, and their symbiotic partnership progressed the development of life itself. They were hunter-gardeners. They held sacred relationships with the plants and animals, and helped along the cycles of the circle, which included helping their seeds to find a good home.

And so did the so-called agriculturalists. They didn't stop hunting Goose, Goose eggs, or Gooseberries, they obviously lived in fertile locales, and they didn't dream of chopping down a forest to plant some Corn. A written english recount of native lore, will tell of a primitive belief that the "gods" gave the gift of "agriculture." No God fearing colonizer would ever believe this, but it's equally doubtful that they'd give the indians credit for figuring it out on their own. So then it's right there, if the gods gave the tribe the sacred gift of agriculture, then it must be above board - plow ahead.

*******

It must be a tough job, being a translator for a language that no one has ever heard, and definitely never written an app for. Easy enough to point and click, nouns and verbs are probably possible for a cunning linguist, but abstract concepts would seem almost impossible to relate. How could you ever convey the notion of 'ownership' over a land that they foolishly believe to be living? Or that these paper scraps somehow hold more value than food? Or that the real God is not connected to anything they could see, as they point to the sky and say "Tunkasila"? Or how could they ever relate to you the depths of which they understand the phrase "mitakuye oiyasin?"

Or how could you figure out their word for 'agriculture'? "Oh, that's easy, you mean planting food and stuff? Our creator gave us the gift of sacred seeds, and we follow our prayerful traditions of using them in a good way. We call this practice, wojupi." Ok then, well what's your word for horticulture? Gardening? "Well, what's the difference?"

The two are not synonyms. Had they been presented a picture book with depictions of both, no tribe would have selected the commodified cages of agriculture as their way of life. Any interpretation of their ecologically integrated planting practices as 'agriculture', was simply lazy, uneducated, or flat out false. And any reference to their way of life as a justification of ours, is pure fallacy.

So you wanna know the difference? Well, you've stuck in here this long, I should probably give you something besides google's best guess of "the plow." Though I think that's a fine place to start. So yeah, the plow made it possible to cover a lot more ground, and made it more convenient to plant long straight rows of monocrop, plus it released gobs of sequestered carbon as it put all those slaves in the unemployment line, but that's all in the name of efficiency.

And that's it. Efficiency. Agriculture strives for efficiency, at all costs, cause that's just good for business. Machines dig it up faster, so we can plant more more more, and the Earth's just our private resource, so what do we care? We can make an extra dime by domesticating nature's perfection, and we can make an extra dollar by debaucherizing its DNA. We saved so much time that we had to work til dark, and ain't nobody freeloading on our watch, so we'll fence off our property and call it a day.

Well, what's the opposite of efficiency then? Goofing off? No, but there's always time for goofing off. Gardening, however, is about love. It's about the beautiful abundance of our living planet, and treating her with the respect that she deserves. You don't have to feel related to her, to acknowledge the delicate balance of her living energies, and to see that tearing through her surface will disrupt their flow. It's about love for the entire community of life. About feeding your family the healthiest combinations of Sun and Earth vibrations possible. About sharing the cornucopia with the animals you share your home with. And most importantly, it's about loving the plants. Ask any garden enthusiast why they do it, it's not for the money, people have to pay to have gardens in this backwards economy that we've fallen for. People garden because they love the plants, the beauty, the smell, the collage of colors when you step back and take it all in. Gardeners talk to their plants, they sing to them, why I bet some even pray with them.

Indians held the seeds sacred, they were a gift from the gods after all. They prayed with them before they were planted, held ceremonies to impart their loving energies upon them, danced and sang to procure the optimal weather conditions, planted and harvested by the moon's natural cycles, not the work week, and they prayed as they pushed them into the surface of their loving mother. The ceremonies were full of formal prayers, but these songs we sing are strong medicine too. We are the conductors of interstellar energies as they flow through us, through the Earth, through the plants, and back out to the stars. We sing to the seeds as they embark on their skyward journey, they hear our prayers, and feel the love through our fingers as we dig into the soil.

Sure, we use tools, but nothing capable of overpowering the essence of our heart. We care for the plants, for their well-being, not for our return on investment. We want them to be as happy as they make us, and it only makes the food that much better. We plant them with their friends, with the Beans and Squash that help them grow strong, not secluded by themselves because it makes them more efficient to pluck. We're in no hurry to harvest a hundred acres, we can sing our songs all day as we reach between the Beans to pick the Corn. We're connected to the plants with literal love vibrations, we progress each others evolution with every passing season, so we wouldn't dare put a diesel engine between us, or a plow. And we'd certainly never throw away their lifeless bodies to make room for another. We don't care about the numbers, only the love, because we understand the importance of good vibrations, and because gardening is a gift of the matriarch.

Agriculture is obviously a product of the patriarchy, it's all efficient straight lines to the bank, and it's spread can easily be traced back as the primary mechanism of fueling war. Villages were conquered and forced to grow for the king's army, the survivors joined the ranks, and the first processed foods enabled even wider spread tyranny across the land. And the spread of the king was the spread of the pope, who backed up the insistence on backbreaking labor, as well as the tax into heaven. But I'm not here to keep digging at the church, I only bring it up to draw one final comparison between agrinomics and the Garden of Eden, and it explains the fundamental difference of the two approaches to sewing seeds.

The indians were given a sacred gift, and they held it that way, with love in their heart as they looked after all of life. They were true caretakers as they tended the abundant garden. And the sons of Abraham, the patriarchal religions of a vengeful God, well, he got mad and cursed them to a life of hard work and Thistles. Agriculture was no gift, it was a burden for a broken man, and he simply passed down the punishment with no thought of apologizing, because that's just the way it is.

*******

Ben's no patriarchal ruler though, he's one of the most loving people I've ever met, and very compassionate towards the plant and animal nations. He keeps animals because he's always felt a strong connection to them, and he wouldn't cut down a living tree any sooner than I would.

There's more Horses here than last time, an animal that he feels a close bond to, and one that I believe we can build true symbiosis with. Here, they are kept in fences, but what other alternative exists in this modern world? He could not keep them at all, but then they wouldn't share this relationship, and I'm positive that he's the best caretaker they will ever know. He offers medical treatment for their small flesh wounds, though some of those do seem to arise from freaking out in a claustrophobic stall. They're young, unbroken, unconditioned to just follow orders, and I thought one was about to get seriously hurt as he tried to escape, until he was sedated.

One time in the past, a Horse broke free through a window, only to break her neck, and you could tell that Ben was broken up as he retold the story. And the same for wilder creatures, like the Deer that occasionally get hung in the fence, and he tries his very best to help free them alive. Or make adrenaline burgers. He doesn't want to cut the fence of course, and a thought of removing it altogether never crossed his mind, but that's simply because fences are just a part of farm life, and it's the only life he's ever known.

He's such an interesting character though, with his duality of this life and the Red Road, and his indian ways certainly make him a more connected agriculturalist. He's not blinded by the world of convenience, but he's not immune to it either, and honestly, I'd rather plug in the Wheat grinder too. He's also from a completely different generation of southern boys than I, and with that taken into account, he is one of the most phenomenal people I have ever met. To have grown up with the outdated conditioning that he has, and to be this opened up to living in a good way, to loving all walks of life, all colors of the rainbow, and to be willing to drop it all and spend a winter in a blizzard, fighting for some indian's water halfway across the country. He is nothing short of remarkable.

I love him dearly. His prayer is strong, and I am proud to have him as a spiritual counselor. I practice the humility to remember that none of my mentors are perfect, and it is only because we've grown so close, that I have had this chance to strengthen my own beliefs in this world. So I don't naysay his ways, I only try to experience the moment and more firmly discover my own path, though I think he may be aware of the subtleties that make me uncomfortable. And he's accommodating, he doesn't ask me to weedeat, I no longer milk the Cow, and he even joins me on my expedition of entomophagy. I am unwilling to smash your hungry Worms, but I got no problem eating them.

*******

A cohort who had read my first book ran into a mutual friend of my previous life, they asked if she was also reading it, but "What? No way, he's gone crazy in the woods behind his grandma's house or something." Lol, I can't wait to see what they say when they hear that I'm eating bugs.

The Broccoli Worms were green and juicy, and organic Broccoli fed, and there were a bunch of them. They fell off after they were steamed, but much better flavor raw, and probably better for you too. So I smushed 'em up after all, then some caramelized Onion and Garlic, salt, pepper, Jalapeno, and dinner was served with an appetizer of fresh Worm guacamole, the perfect topper to those crackers I'd been eyeballing. It was pretty good, tasted like Garlic and Onions, and I bet I could serve it to an unsuspecting diner without complaint. Watch out.

I also started eating Ants. I'd popped a few proteiny larvae before, so when I opened a cupboard to find an infestation, it was the only ethical way to evict them. I had already experimented with rolling them up on a honey coated spoon, Ant covered crispy honey bites, how's that not gonna work? So this time, I just honeyed up a spatula and wiped them out. I laughed about Ant bread early in the day, and then I made it, and only after it was gone and complimented, did I disclose the truth. But they were all game ahead of time, I wouldn't actually trick anybody into liking bugs, these farm folk have been some of my most loyal taste testers since the beginning.

I ate a few Grubs and fried a Caterpillar, crisped up like a french fry, but not all of my scavenging has been the creepy crawlies. We eat Lamb's Quarter at least once a week, and it's pretty good cooked too. I have a favorite patch under an Apple Tree that I sit with while I write, another near a Cherry Tree who helped me with the wondrous tree poem, and some Sorrel next to the Apple and Almond Trees that helped a bit with the story of our mom and dad. Ernie and the kids helped me out too, we went on a wild Goose chase, and if he'd have gotten one with his boomerang, his Goose would be cooked for sure. But we were happy to settle for finding the nest.

There was only one egg, and I remembered those delicious deviled delicacies, so I covered it back up, and the next week there were five. Took three for the three of us at that day's lodge, left two so they'd stay in town, and there was hardly room on the stovetop for these massive over-easies. So good.

We'd been hoping to find mushrooms for an omelette, but I'd left my Morel compass back at the barn, though we've been finding Oysters and Shiitakes quite regularly. We walked across the dam that gets mowed once a year, or else the Locust trees try to begin the regrowth of a functioning forest. And the pond population doesn't have time to regrow on their own, not after we overfished them last year, so we restock what I'm beginning to realize is simply a massive aquarium, not an ecosystem of equilibrium.

And as I was trying to stuff the tough-shelled triple-large egg-rockets deep into my skinny pockets, I almost lost focus and stepped on a tiny Snake waiting in my path. Mindfulness. He coulda been there to remind me to be observant, or maybe he was just thinking that these eggs looked mighty tasty, and they were.

And a trip down throwback manifestation lane wouldn't be complete without digging deep into the archive, so I harvested some Dandelion roots, along with the rest of the plant. I breaded and fried the flowers, OMG, but what isn't good fried? Though, we've also had some raw on a salad, we boiled the greens with the Wild Onions I'd been using daily, I'm really digging them, and then the roots took a little more work.

It sounds like a lot of doing to get enough to do anything with, especially make flour, but though some were pretty small, I dug one that was two feet long and an inch around, at least according to the measurements of the empire. Explains why it's so hard to get rid of this weed, and how it's long roots actually bring deeper minerals to the surface to share with the rest of the plants, and just a couple of these and I had plenty to experiment. I dried them and ran them through the vitamix, which is just a colonized device of electric convenience, as I could have milled them between two stones, but how Erenbrook am I trying to get?

*******

Well, honestly, I crave their company dearly. I would love to be sitting around the tipi hand-milling Dandelion roots. And yeah, it was a lot of work digging, and to get enough to feed the eight of us would take hours, but that would be quality time of sharing heart vibrations with the soil, and with each other, as we sing our favorite prayer songs of gratitude. The time taken to tend the garden and harvest dinner, is not some mindless job that is separate from the rest of your life and who you are, it is time to spend with your family, while you experience the community that people work a whole lifetime to dream about.

And not only is it gluten free of gluttony, it's way less ecologically destructive than a fenced field of rounded up Wheat, burning diesel to cut it, and nuclear power to mill it. Or you could just buy the bleached bread of colonization, and not think about it again. (gluten joke, don't actually do that) So yeah, the wild root is better in every way, except maybe efficiency, but I'm not building a machine to eradicate them from your manicured lawn, that would simply be a wild harvest through agricidal tendencies.

The negative impact of agriculture is not just seen on plowed farms, you could just as easily fence in a wild berry bush and commoditize its energy for profit. As much as I think we should all be eating a wild diet, buying it at the store only means that the wild creatures we stole it from, have to go without. So now we're not even working for it, yet we claim private ownership as we plunder the abundance, for money.

And fish. All of the fish in the ocean are wild, heavily toxified from poison and radiation, but wild and free to roam where they please. Until we overfish them all, as we only see their dwindling populations as our remaining inventory. I'm all about hunting mushrooms and Groundhogs, gathering nuts and berries, foraging forests and fishing for Flounder, but once you're exporting it in exchange for a currency rate, well, you've crossed my bottom line.

Say what you will about Ben, although I guess I'm the only one talking, but he knows the importance of eating local. On so many levels of cycle. There's the personal health and spiritual connection associated with consuming the purest union of Earth and Sun vibrations, rooted in the microbiology of your own particular geographic location, and your local chapter of treesitting prayers. That's a big one.

There's the destruction required in order to import the spoils of another's oppression somewhere else in the world. Which generally includes plastic. Which is owned by monsanto.

And then there's the simple cycle of the circle. We eat in the garden to support the local ecology, and while we may take a few liberties, we'd never deliver. This table-to-farm restaurant is dine-in only. Just like with your precious dollar bills, if we send our supply out of town, the entire flow of our community is halted. There is only so much energy in circulation, and if it stays local, then it continues to build and everyone thrives. But if we ship all of our Wineberries to walmart, then only one of us got paid, while everyone else starves.

I still stand firm on my insistence that the path to superiority, can only be found by plucking from the peak of evolution. But that policy is tightly twisted with the spiraling nature of digging into your own ecosystem, as well as sharing a common connection with the locals. So that leaves us with three delicious options for tonight's dinner service:

We can spend about eight seconds to google the extensive menu of your existing neighborhood eatery; or if you just can't live without seafood, then you can live by the sea; or if you prefer the ethnic diversity of a planetful of flavors, then you can join me, as I roam the Earth and experience an unlimited garden buffet. My world tour will certainly hit the highlights of nine-star cuisine, there'll be a new pizza creation with every set change, and I can guarantee that we will bring to life the only predicted meal plan that I have yet to manifest into my path.

Somewhere between the Wild Rice of the Ojibwe, and the wild Buffalo of the Lakota, we will rejoin the hemispheres of a separated Pangea, with my fusion fantasy of Buffalo Heart Sushi. And as much as I cannot condone the exportation of endangering my brother's escape from extinction, if a piece of raw wild Buffalo heart crosses your path at any point on this globe, eat it, it was there for a reason, and that reason may very well be to evolve the way you think about food for the rest of your life.

And I had another dream last night, it was about feeding a caged Buffalo, so I guess I'm supposed to remind you that when you buy a brick of Bison to recreate my menu, you're only furthering the entrapment of their evolution. And at Sun Dance, that Buffalo had come from a ranch, even if it had been one of prehistoric proportions. But even our resident vegetarian believed that the intense level of sacred energy flowing through the land, was certainly enough to counteract the negative vibrations experienced by our boxed-in brother. Plus, we had the Sun Dance chief praying over it, and I pray while I cook, so if you must consume the spoils of the colonized, at least remember to pray.

Our genuine heart vibrations change the world around us, on a molecular level, especially stuff with water in it, but I'd still pray over that Bison jerky if I were you. You don't have to pray to the stars, or the dirt, or any other indian hippie hoodoo, but you can at least be thankful of your meal, and the plants and animals that went into it, and the energy it will provide you as you spread love into the world, and the tiny vibrating particles that you'll be ingesting as they then become the next generation of your own cellular structure. You are what you eat, just as that Worm was mainly Broccoli, and just as we are prisoners of colonization. And the more we release the cages from our own diet, the lighter we become, as we climb the fence to true freedom. It is time to uncage Eden.

Last month I had a dream that my mom and sister visited me on mother's day. I awoke to confirm that it was in fact mother's day, and I called her to learn that she was visiting my sister. This month, I had a dream that a water protector stopped by, on a mission to escort me to a birthday party that my mom was throwing for me, two months after my birthday. And when I called her the next morning, they had in fact been celebrating my birthday along with my cousin's, just the day before.

My growing connection is interweaving my consciousness through the roots of my ancestry, and the incredible bond of unconditional love that my mother and I share, is sprouting new pathways of long-distance communication. The more disconnected I become from society, the more connected I become to reality. I will soon journey into colonization with the intent on reuniting with family, but my work here is not done yet, and as I continue to plant the seeds of tomorrow, I pray that I will retain the ability to experience today. Aho, mitakuye oiyasin.

*******

We gave up Wheat for a couple of weeks. No major commitment, just a thing we tried as we were beginning to feel the dumbing down of our daily bread. No moral dilemma in its production, no more so than any other caged field of monocrop, this was simply an experiment into the feasibility of forgetting sandwiches. But I love sandwiches, with cheese, and don't even get me started on the anti-semantics of "what is a sandwich?" I've had far too much gluten to figure that one out.

I don't have to quit sandwiches though, I just have to decolonize my definitions of bread, which may only further cloud my definitions of a sandwich, but it will certainly uncloud my mind. Even colonization didn't start out totally wrecking our ruebens, traditional grain processing included a fermentation process and/or they forgot efficiency, and gave them time to sprout first. Indian Lentils, african Corn, welsh Oats, latin Rice, ethiopian Teff, mexican Maize cakes fermented in Banana leaves, europe was all about sprouting stuff, and even america was famous for its sourdoughs. Jumpstarting grains unlocks vital nutrients, counteracts the negative effects of anti-nutrients, and simplifies their molecular structure as they become easier to digest. They're still not necessarily good for us, and don't provide anything that we don't get from an otherwise balanced diet, but at least these traditional processes buy us a few generations of gluten freedom.

So we need to remember the understanding of our ancestors, but as we walk away from a life of permanent Wheat paste, we'll also have to get used to a life with the most diverse bread concoctions we could ever imagine, at least while we're still strung out on gluten. There's of course the same old grains that will still be growing all over creation, like Amaranth and Crabgrass, which are both pretty healthy for us and home. And then we can up the creativity, with baked goods made from acorns, Chestnuts, Cattails, and even Sweet Potatoes. And just to get the pumps primed in your newly refurbished thinker, I've already been working on some fancy new ideas for the future flours of our fantastic journey.

Before I even began digging, I offered a pinch of Tobacco to Unci Maka, and to my family in the Dandelion Nation. On a later harvest, I forgot to pack an offering, so I instead transferred my energy to the Earth through a donated strand of hair from my head. The exchange is simply a conduit of vibration, and an offering from my unkempt scalp is just as powerful as a pinch of ceremony. And on a scientific level, both Tobacco and hair will provide some biological nutrition to the soil, as I remove a piece of her connective tissue.

The roots are deep, as they pull nutrition from below for all to prosper. The medicine of this root has the same effect on our livers, as it digs deep and removes toxins while stimulating digestion. So if we can figure out the pasteless pastry, then this gluten alternative may actually counteract the round-up we've been ingesting for years. I dried them in the oven, so almost roasted them, which is probably not the appropriate process for bread, but perfect for an energizing coffee substitute, or a moon time tea that's good for your blood, your skin, your hormones, and even your mother's breast milk. Yum.

I only had a little bit, so I added water, salt, and aluminum-free baking powder, didn't hold together like a gluten ball, but I managed to get it into the pan like a pancake and it started to rise. I flipped it and it crumbled some, but only into a few pieces, and then I decided that it would make a nice topper for tonight's other invention. I mixed the crumbles with honey as if I was making granola, stuck it in the oven for a bit, and came up with something that wasn't bread, but it sure was tasty. And it would fit perfectly as the flower on top of tonight's Mega Squash Surprise.

You're gonna need a bit of backstory for this one, but I'll have to dig even deeper than I did for the root of this creation. It all started long ago, when two hikers from the Appalachian Trail stopped by for a week, dot dot dot...

*******

Trail hippies. True connoisseurs of nomadicism. Traveling vast distances on foot, with only the supplies and food that they can carry on their backs. And they walk barefoot whenever they can. I think we're gonna get along just fine.

And for the sake of this one-sided conversation, and since you have no other choice, we're gonna pretend that we have already traveled back to the future. This epic homestead of the old ways, is going to function much longer than whatever colony you live in, and their current commitment to traveling light, is perfectly aligned with my astral projections of progress. So we'll just look at this week as a living example of a symbiotic relationship between gracious host and weary traveler, in the year 3333, ooh and ahh, or it could just be tomorrow.

They sent word ahead by way of a faster hiker, or the homing Pigeon who took up residence with the Chickens, oh I got it, they used a smoke signal, duh. So we were excitedly anticipating their arrival, and then they bound in the door with gifts from the road abounding. She had a big bag of Ramps for planting, plus a few fermented to taste, and they'll grow back more and more each year, a true gift that keeps on giving. Plus some fancy cheese, and that was back when I was still cool, so we all were aglow at the present.

We shared stories of adventure, and songs around the drum, and combined our powers to co-create a delicious dinner. They stayed in the barn with me, and they coincidentally arrived during a week of planting, so their volunteer hours were much appreciated in the garden. Happy to be of service of course, especially knowing that they were growing the very food supply, that they were discovering to be as vast as the many miles behind them.

We foraged fresh salads, made fancy flatbreads, invented quiche creations, and it was refreshing to have a new approach to preparing the same staples that we always have on hand. So not only did we get a few additions to our ingredient list, but we experienced the fusion of cooking styles and specialties, and we each walked away as evolved chefs with our new traded tricks. Well, they walked away, we stayed, but not yet.

We had the best conversations, always happy to share the 'Behind the Music of: Standing Rock', you know, that time twelve hundred years ago when the hippies and indians saved the future. And they had tales of the trail, like how their home had once been vast sand dunes, but a mason exported it all to jar up his excess profits. Or how somewhere out west, you can get free mining rights to a plot of land already damaged from destructive mining, and you only have to mine for eight hours a year to keep it, but you're not allowed to build a permanent structure. Wonder who'd care if you just planted restorative vegetation and lived in a tipi? I'd imagine someone would, no regeneration allowed, "Look officer, I promise I'm violently extracting natural resources, you just caught me on an off day."

We also exchanged spiritual practices, there was no need to be scared or judging of one another, because we knew that widening our understanding of the world and how others connect to her, would only deepen our own connection to the universe. We prayed at the tree our way, and then we'd meditate theirs, though we already did this sometimes anyway. And although they were itching to get on the trail, they just washed off in the creek and extended their stay until the new moon ceremony.

They went ahead with me, to light the peta wakan, and it was as special for me as it was for them. I know that one of my roles is a counselor, and that includes being a spiritual counselor for those that I am honored enough to be able to guide. I have already helped several along their paths of connection, but I have never carried the sacred responsibility of sharing my understandings of the peta wakan, and these ways to pray. Until now.

And here I was, at the lodge where I feel the most at home, with new friends that I'd already developed close personal bonds with, and they were the perfect open minds to be fully receptive of everything I had to say about our ceremony of universal connection. No pressure or anything.

But I did great, shared my heart in a way which showed me just how strong my understanding has become, and gave me much to look forward to, as I continue down this road of inspiring my brothers and sisters to join me. And most of what I shared, is already written here, and it was through this book that I had evolved my own ability to put my heart into words. Now I just gotta learn them in Lakota.

Lodge was hot, it humbled us all, and it prepared them for the journey ahead in more ways than they could ever have imagined. You don't feel all of the effects right away, they're still hitting me, so I'm curious where their travels into the universe have taken them thus far.

Yes, they did manage to leave, but not before we loaded them up with dried foods for the road, and fresh foods for dinner. They only have so much space for stuff, and only so much strength to carry it, so they in turn offloaded their heaviest bits of nourishment. A giant bag of trail mix. With chocolate.

There was never an expected transaction of food, and certainly not money, why that stuffs been gone for over a thousand years, but it organically occurred as members of the two-legged family lovingly parted ways. They took some native seeds to spread along the trail and repopulate the garden, and they left those Ramps to do the same here.

They carried our messages onward, as I asked them to share love with the waterways that were once on the planned route of an ancient pipeline, one that an earlier generation of hikers simply didn't allow to be installed. And they carried the songs of our heart, as we did theirs, and one more tiny connection of light had just evolved the reunification of our cosmic creator.

*******

But before all that nonsense, we squashed it. I was put to the test of the "Squash Challenge", a new Butternut dish every night, it was the only way to keep our abundance from catching a case of excess, though the giant mega super Squash was the epitome of surplus. We're currently at day forty of this antifast, but I only have enough ink left for half that many, so you'll have to settle for the best of the best, sorry.

SQUASH CHALLENGE RESULTS

(in no particular disorder)

-Squash Volcano Surprise-

This was actually the preexisting condition that inspired the challenge. I cut the bottom hollow part off, just below where it opens up, and emptied the guts like a Pumpkin. Then I rubbed some butter and honey around the inside, then I rolled out a thin dough that I made somewhere between bread and pie crust, then I managed to stuff it down into the squash so that it lined the inside as its edges stuck out the top, then filled it with a sludge that I'd already cooked with the rest of the Squash and butter and honey and cream and fresh shaved Nutmeg, then I topped with a creamy Strawberry goop of flour and baking powder, then I shaped the dough flaps like leaves atop the Squash, then I put it in the oven. And then? Then it erupted with yummy goodness. The Strawberry stuff oozed out the top, the leaves crisped, the dough inside was like a cobbler, and once the container was fully cooked, we just sat around and devoured it off of the serving platter. Certainly a winner, but we all know that preexisting conditions are disqualified. So...

-Squashiitake Omelette-

-Squashbrowns-

-Kentucky Fried Squash Rounds-

-Pickled Squash Skins-

-Rainbow Squash Slaw-

w/ Broccoli stalk and Yellow Squash

-Squash Bread-

even better for breakfast, sliced and refried

-Bread in Squash-

like the volcano, but a crustless muffin-topped bread loaf inside

-Egg in Squash-

sliced Squash neck with a hole in the middle,

precook Squash, put an 'egg in the hole' and fry it

-Squash-a-Latkes-

Potato cakes with AppleSquash sauce on top

-Squash Pizza-

thick Squash sauce, plus veggies, and cheese

-Vegan Gluten-Free Squash Lasagna-

layers of Butternut, Cabbage, and Yellow Squash, in a sauce of Tomato and Butternut

-Egg on Top Squash Soufflé-

soft fried Potatoes and Squash mashed into cast iron,

crack a bunch of eggs on top and broil

-Three Squash Pile-Up-

Acorn Squash roasted with butter and honey,

fill with a savory concoction of Garlic, Butternut, and egg,

top with spicy grilled Yellow Squash cross-sections

-Roasted Squash Seeds-

-Squash Bowl-

bottom of Squash used to serve a non-Squash dish (cheap shot)

-Squash Pie-

-Squash Ice Cream, Kinda-

served with chocolate Potato pudding

-Squash BreadPie Delicioso-

Squash sweet bread made with recessed center,

topped with glistening sweet creamy Squash yummy goo

(possible blue ribbon winner)

And that brings us all the way to today's Mega Squash Surprise. Every single squashtastic creation listed, came from a seed of a single Squash that Ben and I had eaten in a creamy Squash/Carrot/Potato soup last summer, though I don't think I ever topped that one. He'd planted one Squash worth of seeds, and this prolific plant really put out. And this year, he'll plant the seeds from this massive Squash that I'm preparing to prepare. No squashing machine necessary, just stick them in the ground by hand, so it's easy to imagine how effortless it would be to travel with a few seeds and spread the message of free food, all the way to Squashington DC. And just think about how sophisticated we could pretend to be, if we just planted the entire Squash, all of mother's nutrition fueling the few seeds most evolved to live on the edge of the campaign trail.

A squash this good you can't eat all at once, so tomorrow we'd refill it with a savory rendition, but for tonight I cut the giant bowl and loaded it with a sweet Squash/Peach/Cantaloupe filling, and then, wait for it, then I topped it with my sweet candied Dandelion granola niblets - so freakin good.

We wanted to instagram all of this to-do, but I'd feel bad stealing the souls of all those innocent Squash, so you'll just have to exercise your imagination a bit. Or do try this at home. And I had to exercise my creativity, obviously, especially considering that I stopped cooking with butter about halfway through the event. And nobody noticed. And the Dandelions were a hit, but not bread, so I just dug a bunch more today, ate the greens for dinner, and we'll see if the root will rise to the occasion.

*******

Dug a bunch of Burdock root too. I'd never heard of it, but it's a super medicine, and it grows throughout the country. It's most known for treating acne and eczema in asia, as well as women's reproductive health, but will probably take off here as a blood sugar stabilizer for our native diabetes epidemic. It treats a bunch of other things too, like most of the wild stuff seems to do, you can pickle it, roast it, stir-fry it, and it might even be an aphrodisiac, yum. I pickled a bit and we stir-fried some last night, pretty tasty, but you can also just eat it raw.

Another protector here has been collecting and drying a bunch of Yarrow, and I finally managed to get a flesh wound bad enough to try it out. Ben said to just jam it straight into the cut, mine was a big burn actually, and it should just stick on there as it basically forms a scab. And he said that as long as I don't pick it off or get it wet, it will heal without a scar, and I'd never even know that I'd been hurt. I thought scars were supposed to be cool though? I went for it anyway, and it made the coolest protective covering, and now I can identify it in the wild. But which plant do the band-aids grow on again?

*******

It sure would be useful for our weakened population to know about all these widespread medicines just growing out in their yards, especially once they get sick from spraying weed killer all over it, or white flour. I don't have to keep going on about why the marketeers of the concocted study of pharmacology, would want us scared to get too close to the plant nation, they might be poisonous or something.

It's much safer to ingest the phactory pharmied toxins that clearly explain the side-effects of legal addiction. It's even more convenient than the poisons of the produce section, where the plastic packaging doesn't offer warnings of the imminent danger involved. Certainly it's no coincidence either, the symbiotic relationship between farms and pharmies, a spiral of dependence that keeps us sick and stupid, but at least they made it easy for us and conveniently packaged them under one roof.

The irony of our deficiency, is the gratuitous amount of convenience experienced by those unbrainwashed enough to buy into the hype. It's actually quite convenient to freely step outside and dig you dinner, as its dietary dosage automatically prevents the illness consuming the polluted mainstream. The alternative medicine of the west, requires much more effort to acquire a taste for, and with every drop of lifeforce committed to the commute of commerce, we become further drained of the Earthly energies of environmental immunity.

We fill our contrivial calendars with weeks of work, so that we get the discharge paperwork that insures our recovery from the ailments of working, so that we can get back to work. But of course, food is the main reason... that we're sick. But it's just so darn convenient to not have to know a thing about the most important thing in our lives. It sounds like so much work to try to remember all those songs about the food that grows without a single hoe, but hey, at least our divided labor force makes it easy to forget the reason we were working to begin with. If we weren't convinced to remain seated as we crunch the numbers of our cubicle cogs, we'd have so much time and energy to devote to the energy of our time.

Here at the farm, if you discount the cost of doing business, we just spend a few hours each day working on our food supply, which gives me plenty of time to doodle in this notebook, and still squash the competition. There were busier days of planting, and occasional days dedicated to the harvest, which left me high and dry, as I suffered through the songs of taste testing every other Cherry. But we don't even pick what's for dinner until the stove is already warming up. A life uncorrupted by capitalism leaves us free to experience living. Sure, there's chores along the way, but they're like little adventures that we can do in the now, instead of putting them off until the weekend of our lives.

I get that food's my thing, so not everyone will be as excited to dig a Dandelion as I am, but who could possibly prefer to dig a ditch instead? I'm done with my morning duties before you've even made it to work on time, and I don't have to sit through the congestion of clogged arteries to get there. On my commute to the writer's desk, I take a deep breath of clean air, a drink of clear water, and I tip the scales with a balanced breakfast that I grab on my walk to work. How could any colonized existence possibly be any more convenient than this?

Now, I can't afford a phone or cable or netflix, but when your life is as rich as mine, why would anyone want to dilute it with the distraction of digital clocks? I wake with the rainbow of sunrise, and sometimes I fall back asleep, but I'm eager to experience the excitement of a life that others only get to read about. A life focused on the fundamentals of living, is fundamentally more fulfilling than a focus of finance. I don't have to worry about my next paycheck so that I can eat or heat or have a place to sleep, I jump at the chance to whip up some grubs on an open flame, as I lay my head against the heart of the most important woman in my life.

My journey is the stuff that dreams are made of, and my dreams are coming true, and the truth is, I wouldn't trade a moment of this life for a million of your manmade dollars. My paperless banking system affords me room to negotiate life on my own terms, and it leaves me free to rediscover the secrets of the universe, as I navigate the pathways of my heart. I'm not here to tell a soul how to live, this is a personal exploration of who you really are, and as unique a story as any other. All I can hope for, is that in sharing my own adventure, I can inspire you to begin yours.

This book is just about over, I can tell this because I'm almost out of ink, and these pages have been my freely given gift to you and the rest of the universe. I expect nothing in return, though I know that I have a rewarding road ahead, however, it is customary to exchange gifts as we part ways. I currently have no room in my bag for the material, so if these words have resonated in you a desire to reciprocate the vibrations of my heart, then I can think of only one thing to ask of you. Please don't forget.

### Epiclogue

JK, you know I'm craftier than that, I invented a Black Walnut ink and refilled an empty pen with a Horse syringe. It's not quite as dark, but I'm gonna burn this book anyway, my ego has no need for permanent ink. I've also been wanting to develop a solution for the hypocrisy of writing a book about saving the trees, on notebooks imported from vietnam. Haven't figured it out yet, probably just start making my own recycled pages, or maybe this ink'll fade away with time and I can just reuse these.

Anyway, so where was I? Oh yeah, you were looking for ways to thank me for this book being over. No thanks necessary, I'm as tired of it as you are, and energized to start living the next one. I'm still accepting character applications, so if my writing has enticed you to join the movement, then just come thank me in person. That will be the greatest gift I could imagine, the day when I meet a new family member at camp, and their backstory includes a few pages of mine. I write for me, from the heart, and the transformation you've witnessed has been beyond my wildest dreams. The only dream remaining, is that you follow yours, and that together we all wake up, open our eyes, and step through the gateway of tomorrow. The future is now, don't put off living for another moment, today is the only day worth dying for.

*******

And don't forget that you promised not to, remember why you are here, and that your ego is not who you are. It is a constant commitment that takes daily practice, but as you build humility in your heart, you will create space for cosmic connection. It may help to remove a few words from your diet, like 'mine', or even 'me' and 'I', not every song is about you, and I'm the first person that needs to remember that. We must also shed the belief in the permanence of property. As we begin to understand that this liquid planet cannot be possessed, we will become enlightened to our inheritance of her infinite queendom.

We must enable the reemergence of an indigenous lifeway, learn from those with the ancestral knowledge of living it, and follow the original instructions of tending the garden. As we begin to understand the colonial mechanism of impoverishing the communities that continue to live with the Earth, we will see that their universal wisdom is unparalleled by any processor power, and we may then be free of the constraints that prevent us from decolonizing our own minds.

We must heal the wounds of separation that have repressed the divine feminine energy of the Earth, it is the only way to empower her recovery. Women must once again be held sacred, as we release them from the chains of patriarchal control. In order for the return of balance to tip the global scale, we must each seek genuine understanding as we look past our indoctrinations, only then will we have the capacity to provide the space necessary for the evolution of unconditional love.

This love must extend beyond humanity, we must regain the consciousness that we are all related. This concept must evolve past the words of the left-brained language barrier, and it must one again be felt in our hearts. We must treat every single plant and animal as though they were our mother, they are, and we must practice the humility to melt away any notion of human superiority. Just because we are capable of caging the Earth, doesn't mean we should, it only means that we alone hold the key to setting her free.

As we answer the calls of the wild, and listen closely to the instruction of our hearts, we will once again hear the comforting melodies of planetary connection. As we all begin to wake up, it will become easier to escape the electric fences of vibrational disharmony, but for now, it is in your best interest to remove yourself from as many as you can. You may not be ready to sleep on the ground, but you can take off your shoes and dig in. You don't have to hang up your phone, but you could be a little more mindful of those around you. And you may not yet be in a place to eat the wild abundance of Eden, but every little bit of pure solar vibration helps, as it gently nudges you into tomorrow.

And tomorrow, is the solstice, the biggest day of our revolution, and it marks a complete cycle of a personal journey through our Earthly evolution. The depths of understanding gained, cannot be contained in words, they are beyond comprehension as they flow out of this world. The pathways ahead, are as fluid as the Earth, and the insistence on motion ensures a longer tomorrow.

I will soon leave this place, without regret or concern. I will carry no money, only the compass of my heart, and the ultimate trust that my connection to Unci Maka will guide me to where I am needed the most. It may seem scary to those who've yet to break free, an uncharted trajectory with no net to break the fall, but that net only holds us back from achieving our destiny. The time has come to rise up, without fear, to shed the material of yesterday as we step into the light of tomorrow, and to remember that today is a good day to die.

The last year has been the best thus far, and I expect the next to be even better. I am grateful for Ben, and I offered him the feather that I first arrived with, as a token of my deepest felt heart vibration. I also offered him a gift of Tobacco, some that had spent the winter at Standing Rock with us, and had conveniently recrossed my path at the perfect time. This was a customary exchange of energy, as I asked a personal request of a spiritual mentor, and he could feel in my heart that I was ready.

The solstice ceremony begins tomorrow, and I must now put down the pen, for there is much to do. There is food to be prepped, and fires to be tended, and prayers to be tied. And I must prepare myself for the road ahead, it will be an uphill journey into the unknown. I pray for strength and perseverance, as I beg for humility, and I hold these songs close to my heart, especially that protection one, just in case I start to get scared while I'm all alone. On my first hembleciya. Hoka hey.
So I had dis dream de udder day...

Dere was dis really crazy guy up on dis mountaintop, he was shouting at da stars and crying in da dirt, and he just stood dere on dis rock for a long long time. He was getting pretty hungry, and thirsty, but he told dem trees dat he wudn't gonna eat nuttin, and den one day he wudn't hungry no more. He got down on his knees and prayed, and den laid in da dirt as he reached out for da tree, and den all of a sudden he got transported to a magical place. He had been to dis place one udder time, but not for long, and dis time he could see more clearly where he was. Dere was a centipede over here, and a slug over dere, and he could understand how dey were all working togeder to build dis place. And da trees were alive. Dere was consciousness in every little drop of everyting around him.

He kept talking about being amazed at how beautiful his mama was, and how he could see her magic, and he cried and stuff, and den it got really crazy. He felt dis big wave of energy, it was da humility he'd been begging for, he felt it pour into his body, and den he cried some more. He tank-you'd his mama, said it was such a relief to finally push his ego off of him, and he just laid dere mumbling wopilas. He said dat he could remember, he could remember da tings dat everyone forgets, he could remember da garden.

He had been here before, but just like last time, da more he tried to figure out how it all worked, da more da magic started to disappear. He understood dat he couldn't understand. So he stopped trying. He prayed about some more tings, about some friends dat had started him down da road dat led to here, and how now he finally understood what dey had felt way back den. He seemed very grateful for his journey, and grateful to be back in dis garden, and he mainly just cried and wopila'd a bunch.

He had told a friend about da last time he was here, and she already knew about dis place. She said dat it was a magic place dat medicine people can visit, and gain wisdoms and original instructions to share wit dere brudders and sisters out in dat udder world. And now he was back.

He'd already committed his life to his mama, told her dat he would do anyting she needed, he would even die today for her up on dis hill. Dis commitment was easy, it's his mama, of course he loves her, but den he started to talk about dis udder commitment. It was sumting dat was hard for him, he didn't like to make plans, he wanted to be free to help his mama wherever he was. He kept praying about it, and den he started to see dat dis commitment would help her da most, and dat it would help her to stay in touch wit him. Dat even if dey got separated, dey knew dat dey'd be meeting back up soon. But dis commitment was for four years, and dat's a long time, but he started to see dat it would be da constant centerline dat his paff could always come back to.

He was starting to be ready to commit to deese ways, it was becoming clear dat dis commitment would make da rest of his walk stronger, and he was just about to do it. He was squeezing some dirt and sticks and stuff, and talking about his commitment to his mama, and was just about to say da words, and den all of a sudden a great big snake sliddered around da tree and looked him right in da eye.

Scared him. Bofe of dem. He forgot about his commitment and jumped up, da snake backed up and started making a big circle around him, a backwards circle, so da guy just sat dere and watched him for a bit. Den he remembered dat commitment he was about to make, da snake had stopped him, had come between him and his mama, distracted him wit fear, tempted him wit a way out of making dis commitment, but what did it mean?

He tought da snake worked for his mama, so maybe she didn't want him to commit to dis ting, maybe she wanted him to be free wit da wind. But den no, he knew dat wudn't right, da snake was trying to stop him from being dere for his mama. Maybe he was a bad guy, or maybe he did work for his mama, and was just checking to be sure dat his heart was strong enough for dis commitment. He watched da snake circle around him, it was behind him now, but it couldn't stop him from making his commitment. And den he did it, he committed four years to be somewhere for his mama, take dat snake. But when he turned around, da snake was gone. For real.

Den he looked down, dere was someting in his hand, a gift from his mama for making dis commitment. It was a gift from da garden. He could feel dat it held the magic of da garden in it. It would keep him safe, and connected to his mama. She could find him anywhere now, and he could find her. He didn't know he would get dis gift before he made da commitment, but now he could see dat it would be easy to keep his promise because he had dis gift. He committed to keep dis gift wiff him for four years too, but probably longer, and he knew dat it would keep him walking in a good way.

As long as he always protects dis gift, he will be ok, and his mama can use it to guide him as he always follows da paff dat protects dis sacred tang. And da more he held it and looked at it, da more he could see its magic. Now it looked like two birds, a big mama bird, and a smaller rainbow bird. Da small bird was him, and he was covering up his mama, protecting her. His edges may get worn down as he defends her, but she is big and strong and right behind him, she is protecting him too. Dey are protecting each udder, and if he gets scared out in dat udder world, he can squeeze dis gift and pray wit it, and he'll be back in dis garden wit his mama. What a most sacred gift.

He was so grateful. And very glad he made dat commitment, and now his mama could find him anywhere, even in dat udder world. Da commitment hadn't locked away his paff, it had opened it up. He was mesmerized by da magic of it all. Beyond words. And when he tried to find da words, da magic started to fade away. Ahhh, he could see now, da words and numbers and sciences make da magic go away. You can't try to figure out da garden, or it won't work. Da words and numbers and stuff just boxes up all da pieces of magic, and den it dudn't work no more. Dey just try to quantify da love vibration, and you can't do dat. You can't cage da garden.

And dat reminded him about dis ting his sister told him about one time, about a medicine journey dat told her about da ones using da two-leggeds to mine minerals out of Unci Maka, and using dem to develop new technologies for some reason or anudder. He had wondered why, but now he could see, dey were trying to figure out da garden. Dey knew dere was dis magic dere, and it gave everybody everyting dey could ever want, but dey couldn't figure out how to get dere. So dey enslaved da two-leggeds wiffout dem even knowing, and made 'em start boxing it all up in words, and sciences, and fences, and labeling everyting, and inventing new stuff, and digitizing vibrations, and turning da whole planet inside out as dey dug medals, and made machines, and turned us into robots to try to break into da garden.

From fires to farms to factories to ifones, and it's just anudder fibonacci as it all gets closer and closer to da ultimate energy, but not quite. Dey want in da garden. Dat's what da whole ting has been about, da civilization, da patriarchy, da destruction, da original garden snake and dat tree of knowing stuff, dey want Unci Maka's magic. But you can't get dere wiff sciences, it's gotta be in your heart. And now he's got it in his pocket.

Den it was over. Da garden went away. And nobody ever saw dat guy again. Musta been a writer or someting dough, cause he left a note behind, don't know where he found a pen up on dat mountain, musta made it or sumpting:

The Garden Of Eden is real. I've been there. It is right here in front of us all. We live in a planet made of magic and wonder, but we've gotten lost on a path of tearing her apart in order to figure out how she works. No amount of books or clocks or machines will find the magic, it does not reside in the molecular components of the material, and every attempt we make at cracking the code, only tears us further away from utopia. We are destroying the garden as we struggle to survive in this manmade world, and we are getting pretty close to breaking both of them, but the garden is magic. It cannot be broken by us. Nor can it be broken into. There is no back door that can be hacked, but we are all capable of walking through the front gate, and only together can we remove the entire cage. The cage does not imprison the garden, it only keeps us from experiencing heaven on Earth, but we all hold the key. It is in your heart. All you must do is follow the map of your spirit as you commit to the journey, and you must remember that you are not some physical ego in charge, you are a piece of the infinite universe incarnate. And remember to pray. Aho, mitakuye oiyasin, we are all related.
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