We Fight Not Flesh & Blood
April 9, 2007
It’s true, as Thieu has discovered. I always have loved the sort of women who could hurt me. I always have felt that I gained a higher wisdom from enduring the scars.
The sickness which horrifies us when we look out on the world, is the sickness of a world where everyone is either controlled or controlling. Is this not the significance of the popular obsession with “security?” We are insecure because we understand too well that if we fail to offer ourselves as pawns to somebody’s power and control scheme, we are likely to find ourselves deprived of resources, and socially impotent.
We gain nothing by trying to blame the Arabs or the Communists for this condition. We must examine the conditions of our own society, as well as the proclivities within us which cause us to demand that societies & relationships should be organized according to the traditional European paradigm.
Before Hitler, before the Boer Renaissance established an Apartheid Regime in South Africa, we should have examined the way that the U.S. Cavalry shot down the unarmed Ghost Dancers who were trying to celebrate Christmas by crying out to their raptured loved ones.
At the time the cavalrymen thought themselves heroes. The photographs that survive speak to us with the same pathos as photojournalism from Rawanda, Belsen, or Tuoul Sleng. The tide which had enabled the PaxtonBoys to massacre friendly Indians, the tide of the Legions of the New Rome who slew 96 Christian but Indian martyrs at Gnaddenhutten, the tide of the West-More-Land Movement had gone forth from Westmoreland County and was demonstrating its power to tear up the prairies of the Dakotas with the Hotchkiss Automatic Cannon.
No wonder the prairie states are so often visited by hail and tornadoes. No wonder the good topsoil of Kansas followed the dead Indians on a pilgrimage to the Pure Land. We may forget that so many of the movers and shakers who conquered the West were perpetrators of deliberate genocide – but the souls of the victims have been given a right to stamp their stories on our memories by whatever means may be necessary. If this means sending hail and tornadoes – then hail, tornadoes, Kansas dust storms, and economic depressions are what we shall reap.
This forgotten sin is the reason for our obsession with “Security.” The ghosts shall continue to move until we remember the ones who were not only scalped, but had their breasts and their genitals cut off so the men of the Denver Volunteers could come back withtrophies. Before Hitler we had General Custer and before Custer we had the ordained Methodist minister and Civil War hero – Colonel Chivington.
No wonder the prairie states are so often visited by hail and tornadoes. No wonder the good topsoil of Kansas followed the dead Indians on a pilgrimage to the Pure Land. We may forget that so many of the movers and shakers who conquered the West were perpetrators of deliberate genocide – but the souls of the victims have been given a right to stamp their stories on our memories by whatever means may be necessary. If this means sending hail and tornadoes – then hail, tornadoes, Kansas dust storms, and economic depressions are what we shall reap.
This forgotten sin is the reason for our obsession with “Security.” The ghosts shall continue to move until we remember the ones who were not only scalped, but had their breasts and their genitals cut off so the men of the Denver Volunteers could come back withtrophies. Before Hitler we had General Custer and before Custer we had the ordained Methodist minister and Civil War hero – Colonel Chivington.
By the turn of the century, old pioneers and the new breed of real estate speculators would gather in the Barbary Coast Saloons to lament the death of Manifest Destiny. They would send the young men East with the stories which would confirm their heroism, and the book would be closed. The book was closed, and nobody paid any attention to the writhing and squirming class warfare that was going on under the covers, until the Second Coming of Westmoreland.
It was not until readers began to realize that they had been reading about General Westmoreland every day for month after month, that the ealy harbingers of culture began to waken to the horrific realization that the old God of Manifest Destiny was not dead at all. He had been stunned for a moment by the immensity of the Pacific Ocean, but now he had learned how to cross. He was marching West again, and was massacring the brown villagers ofthe hamlets of South-East Asia with new and improved types of machine gun.
It was not until readers began to realize that they had been reading about General Westmoreland every day for month after month, that the ealy harbingers of culture began to waken to the horrific realization that the old God of Manifest Destiny was not dead at all. He had been stunned for a moment by the immensity of the Pacific Ocean, but now he had learned how to cross. He was marching West again, and was massacring the brown villagers ofthe hamlets of South-East Asia with new and improved types of machine gun.
Things have gotten so bad, it is common to hear people say, it is impossible for anyone to succeed in this world until he has made some private peace with the Devil. The Support Group has arisen from the necessity of correcting this all-too-popular assumption. The ground of the Support Group is the understanding that the Devil is our own shadow, and that we need to support each other in our struggles to avoid being possessed.
Thieu and I walk out in the evening, to a place where the campfire is burning. In the bright light the shadows are flickering, as the survivors tell stories that go all the way back to the times when the first support groups were being formed, way back in the ‘60’s.
The spirits are watching from the crackling flame – spirits who found peace by embracing The Rapture, when the repeating rifles and early machine guns has been brought out to silence the voices of the Natives.
The wood in the fire crackles with pops that resound like gunshots. The smoke brings tears to our eyes. We are humbled, witnessing how we are redeemed by the martyrs who were raptured because the conquering “Civilization” lusted to destroy everything that was red.
Thieu and I walk out in the evening, to a place where the campfire is burning. In the bright light the shadows are flickering, as the survivors tell stories that go all the way back to the times when the first support groups were being formed, way back in the ‘60’s.
The spirits are watching from the crackling flame – spirits who found peace by embracing The Rapture, when the repeating rifles and early machine guns has been brought out to silence the voices of the Natives.
The wood in the fire crackles with pops that resound like gunshots. The smoke brings tears to our eyes. We are humbled, witnessing how we are redeemed by the martyrs who were raptured because the conquering “Civilization” lusted to destroy everything that was red.
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