OK, so I am getting a little feedback from some old friends but most people are keeping quiet. What's going on? I know that I am saying some provocative things to you. Don't you want to take part in the conversation? Or have you fallen victim to the world's stupid doctrine of non-judgementalism? C'mon, if you are breathing, then you've got a judgement on just about everything. I say use your judgement or lose your freedom to speak and act. Next thing you know, you'll be standing in a line to have your most important parts removed (for your own safety of course). It's ok if you don't like what I have to say, and its really ok if you agree with me. Let me know either way. Hit the comment button or send me an email to freemergency@yahoo.com.
We need to be awake and super-aware of what is going on around us, so that we can plot out a plan. We need to have sound minds and use our judgement to stay outside of the swelling tide of complacency that will lead to slavery. Otherwise, you will wake up one day soon in a new world that is run by self-proclaimed elitists who are compelled to "act" on the Earth's behalf to lower the population numbers by 3/4s in order to protect "her".
The one significant chink of feedback I got this week was from a very dear old friend of mine, who was concerned that I was getting drawn into some sort of bummer with all of my rantings. If you know me, then you know that I am quite a happy person. I love to smile and laugh and to help others do the same. So, my writings here were troubling to him. If he is reading this, then just know that I love you even with the seemingly huge gulf of differences in worldview that we have. Perhaps if you take the time to really have that open mind that you say you have, you might change your mind about the realities here on the ground. If not, I will still love you even as you preach your evolution and Mother Earth worship while asking me not to preach my Creator of All worship.
I really appreciated his input and I hope he keeps reading my blog, because I will be putting forth solutions to our problems as we move forward. Unfortunately, in order to get to the repairs we must inspect the damages first. That is preliminary and continual in this messed-up world.
But I thought that today, I would depart from the usual, and give you a little treat. I'm going to copy/paste in here a snippet from a novel that I am working on. I don't really know what it is called yet, so for now it is named after one of the characters, Friend of Hawks. I hope you enjoy it and would appreciate any input or suggestions. Thanks.
FRIEND OF HAWKS
1.
A.D. 1707, Pine River Valley, Colorado
Right there where the Pine River sweeps around and heads directly south, they were all gathered for the fall festival. Mostly Southern Utes, Apache, Navajo and a few scattered white folks, the crowd had swelled to several hundred strong. The rhythm of elk-skin drums was thrumming through the tall grasses all along the warm earth of the rich flood plain as the afternoon sun began to cast long, slender triangle shadows on the east sides of the rawhide wigwams that overlooked the scene from the bluff fifty feet above and to the west of the rendezvous grounds.
Friend-of-Hawks stood at the edge of the bluff, arms crossed and a big, closed mouth grin on his face. He had just completed the last of his daily chores, making sure the horses were all safe inside their corral and was relishing the thought of striding down the hillside trail down to the big bonfire out in the meadow below. He could smell the roasting venison, hear the familiar tribal chant of his clansmen and see the flash of the bands of colorful beads on the cuffs and hemlines of the men and women hopping and spinning over the hard packed dirt all around the pile of smoking, flaming pinion wood.
The meadow was transformed into a bustling little village every year at this time, when the corn was ripening on the stalk and the colors began to turn from green to gold up in the high rockies forty miles to the north. A glance up at the mountains now brought those patches of rust and crimson from the aspen trees at eleven thousand feet down into Friend-of-Hawks eyes , now at the edge of the meadow at 6500 feet. He turned around to look back up at the bluff and saw his mother standing there. She was standing there next to the old dead cedar tree. The one that looked like the claw of an eagle reaching up from the ground to grasp some unsuspecting rabbit from the sky. She smiled and waved. Her name was Moon Deer.
“Hawks!” He spun at hearing his named called, and recognized the voice of his best friend Running Frog. Running Frog was standing near the outside of the dancers who were circling the fire. He gestured for Hawks to join him and so Friend-of-Hawks closed the distance between himself and his friend in his smooth slow running style. The two grasped each other’s right hand forearms and looked each other in the eyes, smiling.
“Let us eat too much meat and watch the white people dance all wrong” suggested Running Frog, “Maybe you will finally talk to Tall Bird and ask her to dance”. “And maybe you will close your mouth before I shove firewood in it”, growled Hawks. He squeezed Frog’s arm hard and glared into his eyes. They both then exploded in laughter, slapped each other on the shoulders and walked toward the food serving area. Hawks looked over his shoulder up on the bluff, and saw that his mother was no longer standing there.
2.
May 2010, Lafayette, Colorado
“It’s a world on the edge of madness. Like when you are loping along on a shady trail through the desert and instantly find yourself at the top edge of a sandy cliff face. You would, of course, try to stop. Your heart rate would spike, slammed into action by the adrenal system. The potent concoction multiplies the strength in your quadriceps and buttocks which are now clamping down to stop the skid. Your right foot veers off slightly and becomes an eleven inch, rubber edged scraper seeking purchase on anything that will offer resistance. You realize that your head is moving forward past where your left foot is barely planted. Involuntarily, your arms begin to wheel backward. Your pupils dilate. You are holding your breath. The canyon yawns beneath you.
“That is what the western nations had just done. After thirty years of indoctrination via sitcom and modem, the shuffling hordes of taxpayers forgot to notice that they were dutifully marching out their established roles. These mostly hardworking people thought that they were working toward a fluffy retirement. They didn’t see their collective trillions being siphoned off. They could not imagine that their selfish, lusty pursuit of abundance had been planned and then used against them. That their “free public education” and covetousness would bring them to this point was outside of consideration.
Now the enemy is inside the wire. The Treasury is beyond default and the Federal Reserve is printing more inflation. The Caribbean is filling with red crude.....”
His thought was interrupted by the two men sitting across from each other at the same table as himself. One is a self-employed mobile mechanic, a savvy, confident guy wearing his black canvas work pants and a black auto parts t-shirt. The other character was more disturbing. Shorter than average and perhaps 50 pounds overweight, his tucked-into-the-socks nylon sweat pants and baggy gray cotton T lent to an overall greasy anxiousness.
Cam Cramwell had met both of them before in this same coffeehouse and had forgotten both of their names. The mechanic was sitting to his right in the brownish-orange leather couch, backed up to one of the big, west facing picture windows which looked out over the patio. He was mid-forties, a smoker with a full head of straight, spiky blond hair and he had decided to drink his to-go cup of Boulder Coffee Company fair trade organic Sumatra Gayo Mountain. Caffeinated.
The fat guy was just kind of loitering around until after eight o’clock before going to hand out flyers. His head was shaved and topped with a grubby gray synthetic wool cap with the bill turned backward. He was about to come back inside from the patio where he had sat in one of the nine, dark green metal arm chairs that gaze over the rail and the wide flagstone side walk to South Public Road. The suv’s and commuters silently came to near stops at the 4-way stop signs here at the corner with east Cannon Street. Cam instinctively accessed a sound effect file from his brain matter and imagined the crunchy thin metallic crackle of the snack size chip bag the fat guy was mashing into a ball.
Cramwell sank back into the soft, high back of the wing chair. It was fifty or sixty years old and upholstered in 1492 era nautical-map-of-the-world fabric. The top edge of the back was splotched and worn from years of sliding, sloshing, coffee mugs and human hands. The arms were darkened and semi-glossy from the same things plus elbows and the forces of pushing one’s self up and out.
He was pondering the glossiness while musing about how he came to be there. “This just isn’t me” he slid his coffee cup along the chair arm. “All these raging millions of liberals slogging through their urban facade of life” his lips pursed slightly. “they think that beef comes from the store and that chicken comes from Colonel Sanders’ magic farm......I need to get out of here.” But there was something appealing about being here. It was springtime, the early roses and lilacs were in bloom, he had just quit his job at the Sun Spot solar company and his wife and daughter were safe and happy back home in Ignacio. He would be going home in a couple of days. “Just relax and get the most out of this. There are more things to learn here.” he told himself.
Cam had spent the last several mornings practicing the same routine. Sleep in till about eight o’clock, get dressed and walk the two blocks from his boss’s house to the Cannon Mine Coffee House, enjoy a strong cuppa and then take a leisurely walk through the neighborhood stopping often to stick his face into lilac bushes and rose blossoms. This was the end of a pleasant season in his life. Taking a few months away from home to learn about solar installation and systems after having his nose to grindstone of custom home building for 15 years straight had sharpened his understanding of himself, humanity and the depth of love he felt for Shaz, his wife and Zanda , his teenage daughter.
“Thank you, Father for this time in my life. Thank you for Shaz and Z and these gorgeous irises!” He bent down to inhale the grape-like aroma from the dark purple blooms. “Wow” he exhaled and strolled along. The English house sparrows were chirping invisibly in the trees. He had no idea how things were about to change.
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