Happy Cinco de Mayo.
In the kivas in the desert, as in the deep jungles far to the South, the elders shake their heads. They see the writing that’s inscribed in trails that are left by jet planes that are larger than a 40 paddle canoe. They see from the morals of the people, as well as from the policies of the public administrators in high office, that the time of the Stick Men has come once again. Once more, their hearts and their brains have turned to wood that is incapable of feeling. Once more, they have forgotten everything that the Creator told them.
The ultimate base of any survivors group lies in the vibrancy of its story.
“Story is the gift of The Raven,” Nancy explains to us. “According to the tribes of the West, there was a time when everything was so dense and overcast, that there was no sun at all. Raven discovered that the sun had been hidden in a box by a wicked sorcerer, and by a clever stratagem was able to steal it and return it to the heavens. But the fire scorched him, so that his feathers are black to this day.
“Each survivor has made the journey of The Raven. In each case, it is a different sorcerer who has stolen the sun. In some cases it has been alcohol or drugs. In some cases it has been war, or torture, or rape. Each of us knows what it is to live in a world in which there is no sun. And each of us has had to learn how to change shapes in order to trick the Evil Spirit that had stolen our sun, so that the sun could be returned to the sky.
“Like the Raven, our own hides have been blackened, and our feathers have been scorched. In order to remind us that even in our heroic moments we are fallible, the Creator has given to each one of us some fundamental flaw of character, which we can only overcome as we develop relations of mutual respect with our fellows.”
We tell our stories, and it becomes a communion of faith.
When all our choices boil down to “To Be or Not To Be?” – that is the definition of Survival Mode.
Paradoxically, we only escape from this Survival Mode when we honour Being by giving it a value that justifies taking the risk of encounter with “Not- Being.”
Part of the delusion of the Ninth Hell is that one is alone. In reality, the suicide that is being contemplated is on the collective level. If one accepts one’s own execution, then one also accepts the execution of others who arrive in the same predicament.
Therefore, our Humanity can only survive, after the “one” has made a comittment to the collective by wilfully remaining in this world for long enough to put up a fight.
Therefore the reason, why the Native honors his ancestors with a dance. He knows quite well, so long as he covets the Christian Torturer’s fashions, he’ll never have a ground on which to stand.
The Native knows, it’s only when he dances, that the Vision of the Sphinx can return to this world. In the light of the Vision of the Sphinx, our dreams are no longer discordant, since her polarity has cast a magnetic field over the pan-psyche. It has been called the music of the spheres, but the melody comes as we allow the Sphinx to conduct us in symphonic harmony with the rest of the orchestra.
The Native knows that a Culture is a frequency that one can tune in to. For the Natives these frequencies are established by the drumbeats of the Circle of the Elders. Other cultures may have other rituals, but the essence of the culture is that it teaches us what we need to know in order to survive as morally conscious humans.
The Native also knows that all of these cultural wampum-belts arose from a word that was spoken by the Maiden of Heaven. This is why the essence of a culture can never be fully known, save through the experience of those who are immersed in it.
The dancing Native is like the crow who flies. He has been disciplined through a historical trauma which flogs him whenever The Sphinx is pleased to hear him howl. It is his struggle to learn to love the same Sphinx who devours him, which causes Amaterasu to look in curiosity from her dark cave, so that the Light can shine on earth again.
Return, then, to the Dancing Ground in the Queen’s Dominion:
Return, then, to the Dancing Ground in the Queen’s Dominion:
Myra Belle Shirley
The Carthaginian Female Academy
The prosperity of the Abusers has deceived and seduced even the elect. Maybe we have had to make these deals in order to shield our loved ones from terrible retaliation. Unfortunately, we know all too well, that the Sphinx shall only chew on our excuses.
The Sphinx awakens, as the setting sun proceeds to bleed on California and the whole Pacific Ocean. She lifts up her paw, because a mighty cry of outrage awakens her heart. She has perceived, that the exalted personages who share in the prosperity of the Abusers, are a different people from her own.
The Sphinx has been awakened by the anguished cries of those who are her people. Those cries inform her of the horrid pain that can afflict the limbs & members of the human anatomy. In her throat, the screams of a million women are joined to become the roar of a lion.
She sees her people bleeding in the gutters. She sees the soldiers going from house to house, because proud and arrogant leaders have discovered a new game to play. She watches as her people wither and die from treatable diseases. She watches while religious pomposities condemn the witch, and then commit crimes that witches would never
She hears how the Voice of the Accuser beams out with supposed authority
from the holy places. She contemplates a world which writhes in the
grip of proud men, who care not at all for the soul, because they
place their faith in guns and money.
When the Sphinx hears the people cry in this way, she stalks through the grass like a lion until she can find healers.
There once was a small African prince who was loved by his father and hated by his aunt. When his father died, the aunt would have killed the prince, save that the Sphinx sheltered him. The Sphinx taught him the medicine of the Rimbaud, who’d come to Ethiopia to seek the noble savage.
There was in the same day a gangster in Italy, who loved modern art only when he could exploit it. In truth, he believed with the Caesars, that civilization and all of its arts were founded on the efficient use of brute force.
Mussolini was riding on a tank. The Emperor Ras Tafari rode on the back of the
In the East African mountains where they met, there still is desolation.
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The morning mist is rising.
Maybe I should start asking Little Caesar, if he wants the tale to have a happy ending. Perhaps the problem is, that he has working too long for Murphy, Dolan, and Riley – and these three Anglo-Norman Gods will only allow us as much light as they can lock up every night in a box.
It isn’t just that Little Caesar has been paid off. The feet upon which his conscience should walk have been reduced to 4 inch lotus hooks. Therefore it is not surprising that he has not and will not be able to find the party responsible for last month’s Tacoma-style drive-by shooting.
But back to the lotus hooks. Of course the Chinese had to bind the feet of their little girls, because that was what was in fashion, and if the girls did not learn to go along with the fashion they would become lonely old women. In our day, for some reason, it is fashionable for conscience to be so broken and bent, that the strong legs that a conscience needs if it is to stand against public opinion, have been transformed to lotus hooks that can hardly support their own weight.
Since our powers to stand on our own feet were crippled when we were children, we must keep in step with the fashion. There may be angry rumblings down in the Union Hall, but under the Cinderella Regime the Union Hall is not fashionable. Murphy, Dolan, and Riley can prove biometrically, that the daughters of the workers have unfashionably big feet, and if you let them get into control, the feet of your daughters will become unfashionably big too.
The Bound Foot Society is experiencing a crisis that is unparalleled in history. If women begin walking, the three little monkeys with their hands clasped over their eyes, ears, and mouth may begin to see and hear and speak out with clear voices. Brains that had been sleeping might begin to wake up and scream.
Today, in 1996, all of the money is pushing for the development of a global market economy. If the Horns of Conscience had not been footbound we might be feeling qualms, and we might walk bout uneasily until we found ourselves in front of City Hall, carrying protest signs. But being obedient members of the Bound Foot Society, we feel that we have no choice except to follow the trend that is in fashion.
If the Horns of Conscience had been allowed to grow feet they might be kicking. Would not consciences that could stand on their own feet demand, that before we globalize the economy we first must globalize the rights of the day laborers? But since our consciences must walk on bound feet, we allow the experts to inform us that our intuitions are unfounded, and that fashion is the order of the day.