Native One

Things about the native America, the white man cannot come to terms with, now the native culture is gone, is they knew how to get along with complexities of nature, and how to get along with God better than white men. The natives were still sharing the basic beliefs and history of the tribe, for the benefit of the young and old alike. The oldest would talk about news and beliefs.

For one thing, there at the time of the native American, the natives still practice the having of the community gathering together regularly, that all were together talking things over. That practice was not yet lost to the native American. There was still a true sense of community to the native American. All stations of humanity had their place with the native American.

By this time in history, the American is under the delusion that watching TV supplants the tradition of a community gathering, but no one could be more mistaken.

TV accomplishes nothing but inundating the human mind with overwhelming images and a lot of loud noise, but does not provide any group with any sense of community at all. Any sense of community is a illusion.

The flower children of the 60s found themselves approaching a knowing of something profound, an ancient knowing, with our version of ingesting of power plants, but found ourselves lacking. We had no one, but he who was a mile high and an inch deep, in our new found perception of a nondescript concept of knowing. It was a matter of the blind leading the blind.

Flower children had nothing but perceptions to go on, and found our perceptions to be inadequate to meet the thrust of what we recognize as false ideology, as the natives once did. It is not enough to know God, and know the truth. The influx of being blasted perpetual propaganda is too strong for anyone to endure. We are faced with an perpetual, organized nonsense.

One finds the Christian power machine too much to fend off overall. There are concepts and rituals used to strengthen the effect of Christianity, the natives never developed an effective response to. Natives, slaughtered methodically, and the Christian power machine won by perpetual threat and unstoppable propaganda, about time the white men want to know what he’s missing.

Native One by George

Two thousand years of an established tradition to provide thrust behind the glue which held Western Civilization together, in a large part of the free world. But by now, the few remaining natives have already sold out to the propaganda machine. Christianity is a money machine, and those making it, have a lot to lose if someone steps up to the plate and swings the bat against them.

There is a lack of anyone to ask, how one goes about living in opposition to the Christian power machine, with renegade thoughts, and odd perceptions of life, inspired by having ingested power plants at some point in one’s history. When an act of dropping was still a practice among flower children, there was pertinent literature to be read, which was not suppressed by government yet.

Literary support has been effectively suppressed by now, and knowledgeable shaman are apparently in short supply. One finds he has ideas of a contrary nature to those of Christianity, but even natives themselves have incorporated Christianity in their basic traditions, and there is nothing authoritative to turn to about personal power and transmigration of the spirit anywhere.

Whatever traditions there were among the natives have been effectively obscured, beyond a few “sci fi” references to shape shifters and certain staged visions about the old ones, and no one has anything to believe in anymore, least of all, many of the priests of the most organized religions of the world. We are godless, searching for meaning, everywhere except where meaning is.

It was the time of the lesser orb, and Henry, the four legged, has crossed the man made stone safely. He was on his way to the raspberries in the brush, where no two legged go. Henry didn’t know they were called raspberries, he only liked the sweetness. He knew about the man made stone which goes forever across the land, because four legged die there, and all four legged know that.

The liquid air to be breathed was mild for the moment, and it was pleasant for Henry to be a part of it all. There were other four legged about, where Henry quietly passed by. Too many dwellings of too many two legged were there, to be successfully avoided. It was a challenge to get from one place to another, apart from the two legged everywhere, and cut grasses weren’t avoided.
Apart from the deer, there were other four legged species to be in the area, but always in the rough. Mostly there were deer out in the open, like Henry. One could never trust any two legged, because they dealt too much with death. He stopped to graze at one of the places of the tall grasses, because those places were becoming less, with so many two legged cutting them down.

So Henry grazed, while the liquid wind talked to the tall grasses in a language the four legged understood such language. Other four legged, same species as Henry, grazed fitfully, as well. It was a pleasant thing, to eat of the few remaining tall grasses in the neighborhood of grasses, which were all mowed down. Cheryl, the doe, finally spoke to Henry,
“Did you hear about Rufus?” she asked.
“No. What happened?”
“He got hit by a solid and passed away,” Cheryl said.
A solid, in deer language, is any sort of automobile. All solids which race across the land, are impossible for deer to detect prior to impact, and are difficult to understand, because a deer’s eyes do not synchronize with each other, being on opposite sides of a deer’s head, and seeing two different things at once. Therefore deer have no depth perception to be appealed to.
“Went back into the circle of things, did he?”
“Yes.”
Cheryl and Henry were walking carelessly through the tall grasses, passed the skin and the meat of the tall trees, and walking together awhile. Peril was not a consideration in either of their minds at that moment. It was not rutting season, and that sort of thing did not concern them either. The one thing there was about the rich meat of the trees, was it made plenty of air for all to breathe.

The one place to go for the most fresh air, is the woods, where the lung and skin in the rich meat of the trees, exhales more fresh air than any place you’d want to go. By this time Henry and Cheryl were not walking side by side anymore, but several paces apart. It was not a deliberate tactical behavior on their part, just an instinctual act with two animals, among many instinctual acts.

Fiction
K
There came a loud barking sound, and Henry was uncharacteristically confused. Cheryl’s middle was thoroughly undone somehow, and she tried to run, but her legs refused her. He saw Cheryl bravely trying, but she didn’t have the strength to do it with. Instead, she took a couple of trembling, unsteady steps, as if dizzy, and wilted, like a flower. Henry bolted quickly into the woods.
The loving arms of trees surrounded him, as Henry fled the uncertainty of the horror he had seen. Deep into the forest Henry bounded, over the fallen arms of unknown trees and the deceased leaves, trees hands on the forest floor. There was no clapping of tree’s hands going on at that moment in time. Cheryl was no more, which was a certainty in the mind of the one other four legged.
Arms of disinterested trees swayed in the breeze, and tree’s fingers held onto clapping hands of unknowing trees, in spite of themselves. Cheryl had returned to the circle of life, and was taken onto the river of forever for an absence of time. Witnessing disinterested fishermen, who never noticed they caught nothing, Cheryl, without thought, became a coyote in a disinterested desert place.
Marcus, another four legged, sorta like Henry, showed up and was holding forth, as if he were running for President. Henry told Marcus he could take the mouth elsewhere, because Henry was not interested in living in Marcus’ head, and Marcus could take that nonsense and drop dead. Marcus only continued with his babble while disappearing over a ridge. Four legged’s mind was gone.

Something instinctual inside of Henry, remembers the raspberries he was originally looking for, and the memory of them sends him off in the very remote direction of the bush in question. Henry doesn’t have any idea what drives him toward the raspberries. He must go. Henry is far afield in this early morning, before any hint of dawn, and he has a lot of unwelcome ground to cover.
Encountering a crick, Henry listens while waters babble on rounded stones. Drawn close by the sweet music of waters and stones, Henry indulges deeply of refreshing waters, between rocks and stones of a vaguely familiar crick bed. He cannot recall the last time he found himself in this remote area of brush, drinking as he was, from this particular crick. He’d rather not answer for it.
But there were no one among his familiars, who were anywhere near where he was at the moment, himself being so far afield from any place customary. Turning his attentions to the music of the waters once more, he lapped up some more of that good, cool water which was so enthralling and enticing to him once again. The four legged had no idea he suffered a wandering mind.

There was a wide foot path to be considered really quite seriously, of finely packed earth on it, flanked by thirsty, tall grasses, leading inexorably into a place of deep wood. The various shades of greens and browns were a study in oil paints of man, all on their own. Not one living thing had dared venture down this pathway in a very long time, except the sure footed hooves of deer.
The wide path of interest to the deer population was just beyond the many stubs of corn stock, which littered a field of corn stalks of a forgotten past, and former ears of corn, on a low hill. There, at the crest, spread out an ample pathway, into the broad leaf maple canopy of a respiring wood. Once undercover of wood, I stopped running, in order to pant and catch my breath after a run.
Busy running away, for some countless number of times, I was running, on the lam once more, from the same state hospital I normally delighted myself in, communing with a banal sort of forest setting of nature in a wood. Inexplicably running away from everything to nothing, thoughtlessly and mindlessly, I would get far away from the ward and want to go back in the worst way.
Deer pellets were strewn amply in a wide path, once the pathway ventured, into a rich shadow of a luxury of air, in a freshly breathing wood, and there, on the forest floor, was a narrow rill which ran only under young trees, to be hopped over carelessly enough, before venturing oneself to the far side of one more bit of forest, which happened to be just past the rill. There was only woods.
It was one more broad leaf maple forest for the living among the deer, and it supported a population in the most handsome fashion. The air was rich with what was freshness itself, and no one could quibble with the pristine quality of it. The meat of the trees were pumping succulent oxygen into a general quantity of air, and the deer population were busy sucking it into eager lungs.
This was the forest Henry found himself ambling through on that bright morning, all cares amply forgotten and no longer on his mind. Deer are simple folk, and don’t have much tendency to hang onto things long. He was absentmindedly wandering in the general direction of a raspberry bush he seemed to remember the approximate location of, from something he’d done before.

Can you remember trucking the rare path of unequivocal liberty, wandering through this wicked world of ours, and wondering where the path would ultimately lead us? There were revelations of great importance in our heart of hearts, on that sunny day of days, and on the royal pathway itself, with confiscated possession of my worn out, old shoes from right off my own, tired feet.
Can you remember, or must I remind you of the glorious quality of the fresh air, in a setting of ample broad leaf maple forests, while we spent hours in the car, searching for an advantageous area to hide out in the sacred woods, to pollute our virgin lungs, with hales of illegal smoke? Resigning ourselves to an arbitrary selection, we parked and scrambled down hill to the mill run.
In those days, our awareness of the diversity of species, such as of maple trees and of deer, were just about nonexistent, and yet we believed we were the few people in this big, wide, wicked world, who absolutely knew anything about life which was worth knowing. But the maple forest was just as grateful for the humans in it, to have to support in our breathing, if only for a little while.
We had no idea what we were doing. As soon as we performed the ritual together, the time would be blotted out from our memories. We should run the risk of a permanent arrest record, because what we did was important, but we don’t know what it was. We forgot. They would psychiatrically arrest us, and put us in state hospitals, because they didn’t have the goods any other way.
What we did was of paramount importance to the entire human race, and we faithfully turned to get the job done thoroughly, but what was the job anyway? We don’t remember. With as many times as I turned in my youth, there ought to be some kind of memory coming back to me, about that day and time, as much as I prod my memory for things like this, but there’s nothing to remember.
It’s so heartbreaking to me to have to face this. I was building nothing, on nothing, with nothing, and that’s about what my turning amounts to in the long run. There were a few, isolated times I remember doing a little bit of this or a little bit of that, but I have no complete stories about the day to day experience of being a flower child in the sixties or seventies. Beer was just as bad.
There were toasted brain cells where there should be a treasure trove of memories for me to recall, as if the fact is something novel to me. I struggle to put a finger on any specific thought or idea about anything that happened to me, or around me, in those days of wine and roses. We used to laugh about being burnt or fried, and how badly our memory was affected, but it’s not a joke.
The memories of my one and only youth have done nothing more nor less than died.

Living on the outside, for one of the few times in my very tenuous adulthood, it was my great ill fortune the world conspired against me, to make me wish for some refuge with the state again, but the county police refused to accommodate me with the trip home. It was inexplicable, until I recalled the many occasions of my elopement, where I’d go running off in every direction, to get away.
The last time I ran away from the state hospital, they must have discharged me against medical advice, and therefore, will always refuse to admit me again, at any given moment in time. I was quite the jack rabbit there for awhile, and always ended up either here and there, if one took their eyes off me long enough, and without sufficient alibi or rhyme or reasoning for my erratic behavior.
It’s too bad, because about the time I’m finally old enough to hurt badly enough to stay where I am, on a regular basis, I would not dare run from any place, to any other, under any circumstances. Having moved away from that catch man area, it happens to be a moot point, but the fact I’m basically a wild man, makes life especially difficult for me, no matter wherever I endeavor to be.
The idea of being a wild man is not a figurative statement in my case, but literal. Never having submitted myself to being parented as a child, I remain wild and uncivilized on into my adulthood. It is certain I was the consternation of my mother, whom I did not trust until I was full grown. There was never a reason I ran away. It was just I put myself in a position to find myself doing so.

Henry was not in attendance to witness the event, but four does were traveling by hoof together, and one of them, called Iris by name, whom Henry was not acquainted with in the slightest, was hit by a solid, on the man made stone which goes on forever across the land. Iris naturally returned to the essence of the circle of life, down on the river of forever, and spent an absence of time there.

Iris was killed and delivered into an eternity, by the impact of the solid, and did not understand or comprehend, how or why she was killed by something she could not understand. There was nothing in eternity to answer her ignorance of a mystery of an event, and Iris simply spent time on the river of forever, not knowing anything new or different than she had always known about life or death.
She found herself unobtrusively passed the entire way through the tunnel of forget, where all former things were utterly and completely forgotten and they were quietly replaced by entirely new things. Before one knew entirely what had happened to the spirit of her, Iris had become a new owl, climbing out of her personal birth shell, and beginning a new life and times in this world.
There is no living creature on the face of this earth of ours, who can completely know the destinations of such deceased life forms on this earth we live in, except for maybe a few of the most accomplished of shaman, ensconced in the deepest of the wood. Most deer were once, in a long series of lifetimes, unremarkable human beings, while few have ever been advised of the fact.
The wild deer in the wood are, in fact, brothers and sisters of the people, who refer to themselves frankly enough, as the human beings. There have been few enough people who were actually human beings, the word unfortunately dilutes itself with an over usage of it. People fear that which is wild, including perfectly harmless human beings, who only missed parenting.
It is a wild man who dares proclaim he knows full well, we don’t live in a free country, we live in a capitalist country. Most of the hype about most of the issues broadcast in this country are bold faced lies and a lot of sunshine up the wazoo besides. They will lock you up somewhere if they think you’re dangerous, and they don’t need criminal charges or a conviction to get the job done.
There are more people locked up in this free country than any place else, anywhere in the world.

It’s up to you how personal your experience is with the Almighty, and whether you can stand on your own with spiritual experiences you have. Not requiring a building to worship God, I make a pilgrimage to the forest primeval of the world, or what happens to be left of it, and summon a sense of sanctuary within the forest and the trees, which happen to be around me at that point.
My form of spiritual experience comes to me honestly, and I have always heard the words of my maker from somewhere inside me. Having heard my maker in a forest of trees and a sky full of clouds, I’m certain he chooses his context himself. It is not his requirement that I hear him in a particular way, only that I be alert for him to say things to me. We’ve made a connection, and it takes that.
One learns to listen to their maker, and if he says nothing whatever, that’s the total of what he has to say for the moment. If there’s anything important to be heard, you can count on hearing it, if you’re listening. I needed a lot of personal instruction at some point, and my maker made himself abundantly known to me. Always listening for the voice of the Almighty, I heard him.
God definitely talks to human beings, and what I do, is expect this from God regularly. The Bible is clear on this point. God fully cooperates, and comes through with exactly what I expect, in his own good time. I find nothing in religion which supports anything like this remarkable interaction, and therefore avoid organized religion altogether. The behavior of human beings is inexplicably unkind, even brutal, on a regular basis. There is no sense of liberty in human interaction.
Brutality is society’s hallmark, and I avoid most people most frequently. None the less, I do enjoy the kindness and caring of a very singular person on a regular basis. I find her love for me to be comforting in every way, and can’t imagine how I could have possibly found her in my lifetime, unless it was from a direct intervention, and he knows how to accomplish such things.
Having experienced grace in the past, I realize there is nothing I’ve done to earn this. Having the privilege of this knowing this remarkable person in my lifetime, is something God wanted for me, for his reasons, and not for my own. I marvel at this latest kindness in life, when so much is brutality in the world. I realize she is God’s greatness, and wonder at his generosity.

There was the greenery of the undergrowth itself to be considered, and the complexity of the litter of fallen sticks and limbs to contend with here and there, when one ventured very far off the beaten path. There were deceased, broad maple leaves spread throughout the forest floor, except for the broad pathway running through, which was as clear as though there were a gardener.
The forest floor is an organized confusion to be contended with, by various animals, not the least of which is man, and mankind obviously has no idea what to do with the many complexities of the forests and woods of the world. All man seems to think of is to go through with a bulldozer and tear the whole place wide open, until all there remains is naked earth, raped of adornment.
The tree doctor will make a house call to your yard, armed with his ropes and trusty chain saw, and hack off a limb or two, here and there, and the tree itself is only fixed in a man’s eyes, when it no longer exists at all. Actually, mankind seems to have this general approach to other living things in general, including humans, they are only fixed by obliterating their existence altogether.

But then, there’s got to be some tangible place for the misfits and goofballs of this society of ours to go, now the federal government has shut down most of it’s welfare programs on us. Society has such a strenuous program compliance for everyone to fit themselves into these days, it’s certain there’s going to be some who can’t fit into the generally accepted program, no matter what they do.
Compliance has never been my bag, I’ll tell you that much. People would set me up to comply with this and comply with that, and I undermined every effort, no matter what it was. I was resistant to going into a pigeon hole, no matter what anyone tried to do with me, for any reason. The ordinary Joe never did understand it about me, but a few of the real misfits might have, if it was necessary.
That’s what a deer is, if you’ll think about it carefully enough. Deer are not only free venison for a good shot. They’re society’s misfits, who refuse to be pigeon holed into somebody else’s program. Make any program you can, but no. No one can prevail upon a deer to do a 9 to 5, five days a week, and buy a car to get to work. They don’t need a supply of milk badly enough to buy a cow.
This society is based on a successful, daily compliance to certain norms, and noncompliance, or failure to comply, is not acceptable, in any manner, shape or form. This wasn’t always the case, and our society was a lot more tolerant of noncompliance once, than it is now, but we have some square pegs which are not going to fit into all the round holes in our society, and that’s all there is to it.

There’s a basic rhythm found in a cadence of speech, found in my area of the deep south, which is not a prayer, but a cadence in a basic manner of speaking, in this area of the country, which is, “Lord, have mercy.” For one thing, humans have no business telling Almighty God what to do, and for another thing, God’s most basic nature is to be merciful, so what are they belly aching about?
Another thing is, it’s obvious there are few people around here, who have any expectation God is real enough to talk, or to be talked to, as you would with anyone. The thing about hearing what God has to say, is he teaches through attractive and unattractive options. If something is talking to you and does not give you options to choose from, it’s certain you are not talking to Almighty God.
An individual’s object in any sort of honest prayer, is to make your intentions known to God. He will never take a person’s free will, and will never intrude on a person. When you pray, you should surrender your wishes to him, with an idea of giving God permission to act in your behalf. It’s his basic object. God is not intrinsically at odds with us. He is waiting for us to reveal our wishes.
Personally, I avoid all technology which incessantly says things, and I listen for ideas from my own heart, from my own conscience, to say things to me instead. I don’t consider it absurd to believe my own mind, or even Almighty God himself, would have novel things to say to me, or my own fertile imagination. When I was young there was only nature and the liquid wind for me to listen to.
Limiting my input from the world, to my personal imagination and the stirring of a liquid wind in my eager ears. It’s a discipline I regularly employ, and would find it less so, if I were to be listening to the boob tube, and whatnot, every moment. Having fed my imagination a steady supply of classic literature, I am prepared to address the sum total of humanity, with whatever I happen to think.

Dealing with an odd sort of challenge every now and then, I cannot make peace with the images in my mind’s eye, or to be more precise, I cannot deal with what I see. There is nothing unusual in my environment at those times, it’s just I cannot deal with the river of sight at such moments. My vision is overwhelmed with too many images to digest, and I cannot focus on so much stimulus.
Encountering the same problem with the river of sight, on several other occasions in recent times, I can’t imagine whatever I should do with such a problem, other than resorting to closing my eyes at my very great inconvenience, such as when I need see. Even that is unsatisfactory at curtailing as strong a thrust as what I call the river of sight, but I can’t help but see it psychedelically.
The river of sight is an hallucinogenic image, from an expression coined from one of the old songs on the market from flower child days, to be ultimately dealt with psychedelically no doubt, but it makes for quite the problem with my vision and discomfort of my eyes every now and then. There are times I can’t accept the flood of images going in my optic nerve, and it’s from quite the trip.
Being on the computer for several hours at a time, doing a lot of writing on a daily basis, does not help alleviate the sensation of the flooding my optic nerve, in the slightest. There are other requirements of my vision I do not wish to neglect either, and I find myself being required to close my eyes, turn the computer off altogether, and rest my eyes purposefully, whether I’d like to or not.

Consider the greatness of the woods and forests remaining to be reckoned with in this world, with a sense of sadness. The ancient lore of the forests of this world is dying the death, along with many of the concepts of creatures which lived there. Soon there will be only the stories, with only forests of real trees breathing the breath, living way up in the far north somewhere.
Consider the difference between the butterflies and faeries, between the ents and trees. Such creatures proceeded to live their lives in a forest primeval, we once did. How many know the unicorn was an antelope at first glance, at some great distance? It takes more living, breathing trees than we once expected, to service the needs of an entire nation of living, breathing people.
Faeries were the living, breathing people of the insect world, once upon a time. They were almost microscopic, as small as they were, with miniature, human-like bodies and gossamer wings. They were in danger of being snuffed out by human man. Faeries had a whole lore and stories of their generations to be told, to a patient listener, and a complete history to go with them.
Those who were sensitive to faerie speech and faerie history have always been small children, and the greatest remembering of faerie lore, and even the history of the faerie nation itself, are hoarded in the whisperings of small children, in their beds late at night. It is said gossamer wings glow in the faint light of dusk, like the tails of lightening bugs do. Their sexuality is not known.
The ents were the people among the living, breathing trees in days of yore. There is less known about them, since they’ve managed to vanish from among us almost entirely, except for a few stories, into an obscure antiquity, the way dinosaurs ultimately did. Ents were very much like trees in some respects, and not in others, though neither trees nor man seem to know the difference.
It is said the ancient ents of the world had an ability to talk, though the difference between the speech of ents and of trees is not entirely known at this late date and time. Trees can talk, if one has the patience to listen, so the difference between them is nothing less than mystery. Why it was a species of ents, did not procreate and survive throughout all the years, is a history not known to man.
It is said, all things worth listening to, will talk to a person, at sometime or another, and it’s a matter of being patient and observant, to hear the various things of nature talking at various times. The wind talks to the tall grasses, and the fresh waters to the stones. It is said there are young men who are as fresh as water, though I wouldn’t know, never having been a young woman.

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