All Hail the Redman 

https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:SittingBull%26BuffaloBill.jpg#mw-jump-to-license

All hail the Redman…No really, right now, stand the fuck up 

And say thank you, Redman. 

I know you didn’t. Too much pride, ego. 

I’ll say it for you. 

Thank you Redman.

Thank you Whiteman. 

Thank you Blackman. 

We don’t decide the spirit. It’s imbued in the matter, in the dirt, in the shit. We, colonizer of the world, think we own the world through definition, observation, naming, reducing; it’s not true. The place, the thing imbues us, and defines us, effortlessly and true. All stress, and pain are is a resistance to this definition, and it only hurts and degrades us. Don’t moan for the earth, it cries already for you. 

I am one with the force, and the force is with me, I am one with the force, and the force is with me. That’s what the blind Chirrut Imwe repeats as he walks through a war zone at the end of Rogue One. Beautiful fiction, but hijacked from reality; Remember all Art is. All hail the Redman. Remember Sitting Bull after the Sun Dance, imbued with the Great Spirit, charging into waves of rifle fire, walking between the worlds. 

You don’t hear, don’t understand . Remember the Celtic warrior. Standing stark naked, clutching their spears and swords, under the roar and glint of an approaching Roman army. Imagine you there, the screams pouring out in waves. As time slows to nothing and worlds lose their meaning. All hail the Redman. 

 Maybe you think it’s not true; it’s not you; you’re wrong. It’s there under an electric, wifi, societal body bag. But it stirs in the night and at red lights, and in heart that wavers in recognition of the Spirit. All hail the Redman. 

Imagine three months in the hull of some ship. Rotted wood corrupted by piss and shit. An antithetical, hell trap of a second womb. Spewed out on some hot dock, served to another world of whip, control and slavery. But the Spirit rolls and fills the void. The mouth says Hallelujah again. All hail the Redman. 

Imagine you’re leaving a concert, sticky from communal sweat and gyrating humanity, legs wobbling, spirit light. It’s one of the greatest nights of your life. Your friends and freedom, music that transcended the monotony of regularity, all assured, you were a spirit and you would live forever, tonight. And then as a cool breeze hits you in the lobby, blessedly cool and fresh, there’s a fucking psychopath, with his hand in his pockets, clutching a bulky middle, chanting words to the heavens…all hail the Redman. 

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