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Uppity I am of Red Georgia Clay
by David Sparenberg
2013-08-21 10:34:59
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A nation that continually moves away from itself, its past—call it whatever you will, Manifest Destiny or Progress—is a nation with a bad conscience.
People on the run don’t want their shadows catching up with them.  Yet simply go back, two. three generations or four at most, and it is easy to find families whose ancestors killed Indians and whose ancestors owned African slaves, that is, reduced human beings to cigar store painted wood and terrorized, mass brutalized, then useful property.
That is not much time however.  Especially since Earth remembers everything and records all on parchments of layered stone.  The stains of crime are geo-spiritually long lasting.  That entire existences can waste away in denials through drunken binges and the neuroses of covering disquieting tracks.
Now dare, if we dare, to be honest beyond the platitudes of lofty ideals—beyond our rhetoric, our phobias, even beyond advancing addictions.  The natives of this Turtle Island lived in the splendor and abundance of a continent in natural balance and without what is called civilization.  Undisturbed, tribes did not know of the Appian Way and never needed schools for masons and engineers.  But held in common—in the primal democracy of engaged cohabitation—the prayer book of nature.  These, in unassuming dignity, walked along the red path way of honoring, in full give and take participation.  As much as was the tree, the stone, the wolf, black tail deer, the raven, and the bear.
Yet these United States put down claims out of colonies and spread ever westward—oh westward ho—through unbridled and unholy greed and genocide—purges enacted again flourishing aboriginal peoples and flourishing buffalo and forests.  Slavery also was from the start—that most perfidious of institutions—clinging for the longest time, coiled ‘round the body of national identity, until capitalism industrialized and the owning of men and women gave over in systemic trauma to jobs and tenements, ghettos and wages.
Should we ever look beyond skin, face into our Golgotha of history, there we would see the thick viscosity of guilt and fear.  There we might even come to know what blackness of soul and murdering by color truly is.  Even exposing to plain view what lurks behind a burning cross, a coven of peaked hoods, the ever handy loaded gun, and laws, protecting ownership, of “stand your ground”.
Yes, there are subjects of taboo poxing through even the social culture of our so-called transparency, wherein histories are not taught and particular pathologies are excluded.  While yet invisible chapters of Americana continue being written in hate crimes and race.
To investigate, to encounter, to ingest into instinct and flesh, do no more than go out to the Third World reservation at Pine Ridge, or walk late night the deadly streets of Chicago, or head on down around the glades and seek out the crying ghost of Travon Martin.
With all that happens now on Earth, truth is finally catching up and truth we are finding is as knotted as a hangman’s noose.
Greed is our God, consumerism our national religion—to eat, to rape, and poison or surgically augment whatever lives in otherness beyond us.  So we pray the Breed Apart Prayer, passed on reactively, and sub-dermal  from fathers to sons, mothers to daughters, grandfathers to children, grandmothers…
To this same purpose—and I do not say it as a joke—a celluloid John Wayne, a fictitious immortal, is avatar of foreign policy; as our government, of the people, by the people and for, continues playing Cowboys and Indians, Texas Rangers versus Renegades and frontier shoot ‘um up gunslingers, policing most of the world for profit.
And we haven’t stopped running either, spinning the wheels-adolescent, making lots of smoke and noise.  We haven’t even gone deep down into the Edger Allan Poe of our darkness; neither established forgiveness as a touchstone of democracy or reversal as light touch of ascending, that is uplifted, liberty.  None are liberated who allow the boxes of hiding to cyborg into their skin.
But why listen to me?  Why listen at all?  I guess before your politically correctness I am reprobate, or at very least an embarrassment of cheeks between us.  Uppity I am  out of the red Georgia clay and banks of the Mississippi.
My maternal great grandmother was a full blooded Eastern Cherokee.  A tall, long haired, bronze faced woman whose family escaped into mountain hideaways the army of Andrew Jackson and the Trail of Tears and Oklahoma land grab.  My maternal grandfather’s cousin, the half breed Robin Hood of the Great Depression; that outlaw Woody Guthrie wrote a song about while tramping across America; Charles “Pretty Boy” Floyd was cut down and murdered on the ground by an FBI hitman named Purvis.
There are still people here about, America, who tremble in nightmares from wounds by slave ships and in slavery markets.  There are still people here about, America, who feel in their guts echoing cries of many an unburied Wounded Knee.
Earth: Earth is memory; creation speaks the red path plan in languages of the soul.  Few listen, retaining vestiges of ancient skill, a felt-sense.  Most of these inhabitants, schooled in forgetfulness and patriotism, are deaf and obese, lost, and desolate.
David Sparenberg
15-16 August 2013


RD Laing used to ask, “How often are you simply handed a cup of tea?” A Zen question! Or gifted 2 free eco ebooks? Just check HERE!  


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Leah Sellers2013-08-21 21:49:08
Brother David,
Sir, you are a Brilliant Earth and Cosmic Angel Singing and Intertwining the Glorious Evolutionary Melodies,and Symphonies of their Multi-verses.
Thank you, for your Brilliant Gift and Insights.

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