thriving smokehouse economy

part of this therapy is sitting alone.

It is seeing torsos and hindquarters of meat cut up and marinated in a briny brine of the briniest brine that you can find...to be left in the corner like a bad child having committed the most heinous of crimes and uttered "geez...." as a profanity against our lord and savior Jesus Christ and all the sanctimony of sunday dinner! I mean GEEZ!! Give me fucking break.

The sacrifice of flesh as a symbol of faith is not profound or alien as it is a symbol of mortality. I posted a ditty on my facebook page:

"here we see the very real and practical application of meat as a sculptural material!! Notice the texture of the meat that has been rubbed in Muskrat Coffee- (available at www.muskratcoffeeco.com) and its contrast with the teryaki apple smoked hindquarter. The artist use of space in this piece indicates a presence that is minimal and yet firm; a kind of PURE foundation of primal desire and native Injunuity...the choice for display in the middle of the woods is an apparent and obvious homage to his forefathers and ancestral roots of being one with the land and in a fashion that denotes comfort and nobility. The use of photography to portray this moment presents us with a paradox of spirit and interpretation:is the scene beautiful in itself and does the relegating of this space to a two dimensional view detract from its significance...or is it merely the reinvention of how we connect as people to the objects of mortality? Does the objectification of what was once living flesh cross the bounds to sacrilege? And if so, how do we view the sacrifice of flesh in worship? we wonder. we live. we love."

not a chance.

It is the blurring of sacrifice versus natural law. It is the law of the jungle and the frat boy mentality of might makes right (as i heard Mr. Churchhill say). There are some that go willingly and others that are ordered to go. When the call comes; it is not for all. For others we go willingly.

We go willingly to the smokehouse to hang the hindquarters of naked flesh to the fires of dissent and anarchy. We light the fires of change as all things are born of fire; to rise and burn with all the grace of an old shaman in his final hours, only to die and dream those old fires. And in the smoke comes the change that is needed and required. It is the change of self and thought. One sentimental journey of imagination and destiny that has made me walk 1400 miles in the boots of my ancestors to arrive. And in arriving at the halls of nobility and destiny, a carpet of green dreams and cedar smoke haunted me. It bent the message. It bent the message to a point that the message broke...and in you allowing it to break, we became hostages to something as horrible and vicious as any war or oven fire or nails in hands and feet or crown of thorns.

we became hostages to ourselves.

and i woke up.

I woke to find that the world around me that had comforted for so long had been a prefabricated dream. I left the security of anonymity and ignorance and found some seeds of truth. I found prisoners of conscience right under the top layer of soil, looking to breathe free and grow. I found some semblance of value in recognizing my place in the history of my people. Not a martyr. not a martyr. not a martyr. just Marty...to not die for my people but live.

to free the seeds of doubts for so many and plant some hope in the hearts of others...but to be firm in resolve that there is war and with it comes casualties.

and in the silence you can hear them scream...when your sitting alone.

by the smokehouse.

stay in touch.

So i am managing through this whole issue of "reconnecting" with my PTSD after it lay buried under of warm, Pendleton of denial and solitude...awakening it may have not been a good thing...It may be the thing that pushes me over the edge of reason and into a whole new paradigm...It is what it is and in the end I probably owe a debt to the good colonel and his girlfriend for making me the crazy mother fucking indian that i have become...we will ride this last war pony to sundown...

So I am thinking that there is a whole secret issue behind this war. It is the closing gaps of old ancestoral spiritual wars between the Lakota and the Anishinabe. There are corners where a bit of resentment is stashed; in the name of culture and pride and entitlement and it is vigorously spent in the name of progress...and the new green economy. Indians who knock other indians for being wanna-be's are they themselves in a world of insecurity about identity. Agent Ginew is just harboring resentment about his own identity...and he is harboring it toward himself...like his business dont stink and he is the ALPHA and OMEGA of War Chiefs and everyone else is shit.

But it begs the question that ALL of Native America is on the throes of asking which is "Who the fuck am I?" Am I something that my old man would be proud of? Or would he be ashamed of me and my actions and attitudes to the point of dishing out some disapproval that I couldn't handle...? Does my daily interaction with people leave a good impression or do I act like MY way is the ONLY way...and push people away...to the point of emotional isolation? HMM? both of these apply to Ginew and WLD.

"I don't want to be a soldier; that the captain of some sinking ship would stow...far below...if you love me..why'd you let me go??? A good tune...

For me, I fight because no one told me to stop and even if they told me to; I wouldn't know how to. Too many people feel they have to fight in another's army or another's war and they promise great payouts of $30,000 or 45,000 to local charitable not for profits from the $17,000 that was paid to them from illicit and illegal fights. They offer the hope of a new world with the best of intentions and of course we know about the road that is paved with good intentions...it is slippery covered in the blood of indifference. My indifference is that i fight in my army with my orders. Thats the defining line between soldier and man. You can bark out orders like a soldier and expect that the world will dance a crow hop when any song is played...or you can be a man and lead by example...and be inclusive of the singers and the dancers and the drummers...and it will all go smoothly... or not...but at least the failure is shared and not on the shoulders of one lone ALMIGHTY gunman.

I will receive some criticism for this blog and my subsequent media frenzy. Fuck them. Who are you to tell me how I am supposed to deal with my "trauma" in this. If you don't like the battles, don't join the war. This is MY fight. If you don't like animals running free and wild, don't ask them to join the movement...and then bitch and moan when the animals thrive....

I can take the war. I am not going anywhere.

WE live. We pray. Bamaa.

i live

So lost on the road

so long in the soul

i work another day to gain

patience and wisdom

a man shunning the light of another night

a man shoving the truth down the throat of the insane

only to be reviled and scorned;

beaten and killed a thousand times by the knives of ancestors.

So long on the road

so long in the soul...

i live another day...