20091204

BLACK ELK SCREAMS.


This place stinks of sweet grass and sage. Smells nightmarish. Overwhelming. God, I can hardly focus my attention on what matters. The television set. The television set. The television set is crying. The remote control is crying. The microwave oven is crying - the song of an orphan. Crying out my name. Nice Fox, you idiot, you blind-eyed nothing, wake up and smell the garbage! And what's your American Indian name? Ghost Writer? You look more like a Round Never to me. And what about erecting a totem pole? D'ya mind? Right here. Right now. Thirty feet tall. Or, rather, would it be legal? Say, in my front yard. Yeah, about thirty feet tall. Because this energy needs balancing out. Needs Porcupine, or Bison, or something. Oh, God. "You're interested in archaeology, I see!" Um, sir. No, sir. You must have me mistaken for someone else, who is dead ... Who told you all that rubbish anyway? Great Spirit'll give 'em what for. One day when they least expect it, he'll come in the form of a terrible pink lightening storm and ... POP! No, really, what I'm interested in is what raccoons might think about right before they fall asleep, and how I might be able to turn that into a song, or a shield, or a great stationary cloud. More often than not, all of the above, simultaneously. I'm interested in why, as I close my eyes, I can see a series of humming, stop-motion pictures that have nothing to do with anything. Vaguely. Of giant serpents who sing about the relevance of cosmology in the Modern World. Or how the two-leggeds could benefit greatly from meditating upon the circle, symbolically, rhythmically, whatever. And when I open my eyes, I am stricken to notice a televised advertisement for weight loss implements or blessed, multipurpose kitchen utensils - the things God must use to stay fit. So, yes, go ahead. Assume. Let's say I'm interested in archaeology. So long as I have your permission to chant into a rock and spend a bit more time staring at the patterns in your wallpaper. I do not have a reason Why. Stop bothering me. Leave me with this tree. It has more to say than any of you, and it isn't half as ugly. That was a joke, a banana peel. Dog-like wisdom, or some other bit of food. It means, "Pick on someone your own size, chump." I'm already on tippy-toes. The difference is I know why I'm on them. It ain't ethnocentric if the White of your Spirit bleeds itself Red.

No comments: