Monday, April 20, 2015

Change Log : Spirit Upgrade

CIA Spy Plane on Pantelleria Island April 2015 @2015

When I listen to TV parents talk to their children; I find it intensely suspicious. I would have been so amazed if my parents told me anything useful at all that I could remember. I listen to these written dialogues about what a family could talk about. It is often very compelling. It evokes a strong emotion at times. Particularly when the writing is very good. I have been following the people in the drama “The Americans”. The leading characters are spies, killers, professional liars and skilled at disruption. Yet for their cover, they have  two teenage children. They really love them and have these honest and open and sometimes brilliant conversations. My father seemed to detest talking to his family…his wife and his children. And she picked up his habits as a thumbed down wife would. As she not doubt should. That left my brother and I out. I did not come from a family where the family talked together, shared stories, expressed aspirations or stood up for their independence.

Maybe for the writers, people who live so closely to life and death are more honest and more direct…more willing to just engage. So the writers search their memories or what do they do? These conversations can be great conversations.

Reality for many people, for me, is more quiet. With longer spaces between the silences. I do at this point in my life have a companion with whom I can and do discuss, explore, argue, examine, question and share every possible thought I have. Perhaps some of the things we talk about are just as good as the things great writers write down. It is hard to know for sure.

Perhaps one needs a mission. For The Americans it is the Motherland of The Soviet Union and their missions in America. But I do in fact have a mission, several in fact, or like the spies, or like the Fellowship of the Ring or even the man in the Gods Must Be Crazy…or a good boy going to the market for eggs for my mother when I was a child…a mission…today my mission is .taking care of the fully loaded tribal sacred pipes and bundle of mystery life objects from the Old Indians. I wander through periods of life where art is everything, a carving or a painting. Working on a great carving or painting is very transportive, a journey of sorts.. Even so, I realise, or accept, or impose upon the great Silence that surrounds the sacred pipe, even the art. There is more content in the silence than in the conversations that one might have about these things. In my view. My mission has been to stay alive, put one foot in front of the other, and somehow find my way around the world with a small, seemingly sacred ceremony, sanctioned by tribal elders from all across North America.

Lately, it has become more and more clear to me that the American Indian is invisible. The latest exhibit in this situation involves the rather new “Pope” of the Roman Catholic Church, in Rome, Italy. While speaking straight up about the genocide of 168,000 Armenia Christians in the WW 1, the Pope excited the political protests of the creepy, possibly insane President of Turkey, who has taken strong exception to the use of the term “genocide”. While His Holiness was speaking “truth to power” and calling genocide by its first and proper name in Turkey, he continues, unblinking, in the canonisation of a catholic Bishop who murdered and disappeared American Indians, by the tens of thousands, in North California in the early 1800s. Even though every American Indian tribe in North America opposes the elevation to saint of this proudly self-admitted killer, and sent official delegations to the Vatican, no one from His Holiness’s office will even meet with these delegates. The hypocrisy and contradiction between this international speech and this elevation of a murderer is astonishing…and produced not a single word of question or outrage outside of the (invisible) American Indian community. This is just the most recent example of many.

After more than 30 years of working every day to move this sacred pipe around in the world, I am no further along today than I was 30 years ago. I have never, ever, lost for even a moment, my belief that this world ceremony is a great idea; an idea that has real potential to change many things. I can count on one hand the number of people who believe, along with me, in the value of this work. I am not complaining so much as expressing astonishment. Everywhere I go, if the subject of “American Indian” comes up, there is a lot of sympathetic agreement. A positive response. Everyone I meet treats me very well precisely because of my work. Yet not one of the sympathetic listeners has ever stepped up to provide help in the real world effort. Not even once.

Invisible. An invisible man with an invisible mission. Constantly in motion. Some days, lives are changed. The imagination of strangers all over the world is activated. We can all wonder, “what are we doing to help the world”…and the answer is not easy to come by. I have found, over and over, situations where a simple act, like making the morning fire, can change almost any life. It is easy and straight forward. Yet give it to most people and they won’t do it. There are answers, but they are to much trouble, to stand up and walk outside and do something sacred for ten minutes. That is to hard. Trouble boils in a pot with an open flame…all you need to do is turn off the heat. Yet people do not.

I live about 20 miles from the top of Africa. Recently our little airport has been hosting a high tech scanning and monitoring aircraft. Along with an undetermined cast of Americans on the island. We have this little part of the “war on terror”. No one feels any safer. These guys have a mission as well…well funded, sophisticated. War Missions are popular. Sacred Missions, not so much.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Equinox of Spring : An ode to open doors

Equinox Ceremony Pantelleria : ©2015 Turtle Heart

equinox :

a door opens
yet another door, another passage
who will follow
their dreams to the other side

is there something you need to put down
is there something more you could do
is there a light to guide you
is there something behind you
you need to turn around and look
see what is there
in the long shadow of might have been

the great wind has carried you here
the great light is showing you the way forward
even as you are standing still
yet you are carried forward
perhaps there is a dream you remembered
perhaps there is something you really wanted to say
perhaps there really is something you can do
yes, that door has opened once again
for eight breaths
eight heart-beats
eight times a blinking of the eye

seeds have opened once again
mother earth warm and sweet
yes, a door has opened
another chance
to follow yourself
find yourself, to pass through
over, under and around
a sacred life, inside a sacred heart

turtle heart
for the world journey of a sacred pipe
©2015 words, text, photography Turtle Heart

Saturday, March 07, 2015

Soldier's Lament : Arrest George Bush

Clip from a film : "Prosecution of an American President" ©film owners
  • Islamic state destroying art
  • The equipment worn by modern soldiers
  • Netenyahoo….
  • Our soldiers. Thousands of them dead. Gone. Their families devestated. Tens of thousands injured, broken, their lives changed forever into something less. Suicides. By the thousand. By the thousands. Suicides.
  • For what?
  • George W. Bush. Criminal. Liar. A disgraced American President. An non-prosecuted criminal. A liar. A coward.  A hallow and empty man. A disgrace to his country. A disgrace to human history.

When I was a young man, I loved to study history. In every country and culture. Part of this interest came into my young bones from the efforts of Mrs. Wells. Even after so many years I remember her great passion for history at Eastmoore High School in Columbus Ohio. Also her legs. She had such beautiful legs. It was her habit to sit on her desk, on the top, in front of the class, with her beautiful legs crossed..she seemed to get lost in the stories of things that happened a long time ago. It infected me and I have never lost that interest.

Like many young people, I grew up in my life believing the world would be better and sweeter. I believed absolutely that the “adults” had learned from all the horrible mistakes made in the past. I believed the world would be sweeter and better.

Now I am an old man. I see how foolish, how stupid, how selfish our society truly is. No one seems to have learned from the mistakes of the past. Most of our so-called leaders do not even know about the past. So many of our leaders these days are people, men in particular, with no education. Yes, they have elite degrees. A dumb as a rock US President, George Bush actually went to one of the finest universities in the world. He got through it with a low, barely passing grade. Bush is such a stupid, stupid man. He can barely form a complete sentence. If you watch a video of him walking, it seems to take all of his concentration just to get one foot in front of the other. He stumbled and mumbled his way through a life that has proven an absolute disaster for this country, indeed, for the world. History taught me much about the “accidents” that often put stupid, empty human beings in enormous positions of power. And history is littered with the consequences of those men and their lives.

History also teaches us about those who grovel and scrape and kiss the sacred asses of those in power. This is the America we have today.

I can’t hep wondering, if she were alive, what Mrs. Wells would think of the suicides, madness, homelessness and confusion of today’s generation of veterans? Of the bloviating cowards, men gipped in fear and loathing of their mothers, like Rush Limbaugh or Ted Cruz..or the apparently motherless Plastic Cubano, Rubio, a United States Senator from Florida?

1969. Seven or eight young men, and myself. Their medic. We were attached at that moment to a group of the Eighth Calvary, commanded by an obese, confused and shallow officer, one Col. George S. Patton, IV. Yes, General George Patton’s son. Most of the time our little group was sneaking around the wet jungles on our own. Thinking back on this scene now, years later, we were sitting ducks, or waddling ducks perhaps. Completely exposed.

I was intoxicated by the beauty of that great forest area. It was so green, so clean and pristine. The only trash I ever saw was the trash dropped by American soldiers. Most of the time, the only people we saw were “locals”. Villagers. They seemed to live in a kind of suspended animation. There were times when I saw them shot to pieces, literally. I never understood exactly what they had done. Looking them over, there were no weapons, no important documents. No clear links to trouble. 

One time, ina small village we passed through, all the young men and a few women came up to me with gigantic smiles and rubbed my belly. They ignored everyone else. Not one of us spoke the language. To this day I have no idea that was about.

We just had our clothes, a helmet. A rifle. Our little packs with food in cans. Free tobacco. Looking at the protective and tactical clothing today’s soldiers wear into combat, it feels like we were nearly naked out there. Alone with our little “lurp” platoon. At first, as a medic, I saw no need to carry a M-16. I carried a .45 pistol, Army issue. I liked it. As a medic I was under no obligation to carry a rifle; at least there, at that time, in that situation. After the first occasion where we were taking arms fire directed at us, bullets flying everywhere. I felt pretty foolish. A few hours later, as we were being resupplied by a helicopter, with more bullets and actually some fresh-cooked food (steaks), they delivered me a brand new M-16. So much for my childish idea as to what my role in that platoon was. I went from being a quasi-pacifist to being a fully armed combat soldier. Locked and loaded. I even started carrying hand-grenades. Used them to.

Not one of us understood why we were there. To this day I have no idea why. After walking around in the magic jungle for 4 or 5 months, I feel into a pit, breaking my right ankle. This got me “medivacked” back to my headquarters unit, I forget where that was. After floating around there a few days, they sent me to Japan for surgery on my ankle, inserting a metal pin, titanium, to hold it together. My ticket back home, to an Army hospital and months of lingering around, doing nothing. It was a really strange fucking experience.

I came home. Lost. Not much idea what to do next. For months. I ended up going off to Canada. Toronto. I stayed there for a year. When I finally came home, I was thrown out of the Army and drifted back into a confused life as an American vet.

In this state of mind I returned to contacts within the American Indian part of my family. Those old Indians changed my life. They forgave me. Taught me to forgive myself. And gave me a new life. The life I have today. An old Indian myself now. Traveling around in the world and trying to do for others what those old Indians did for me. With mixed results. But always with gratitude for what those old Indians did for me, for what I was able to do for myself.

Soldiers come home from today’s wars. To their families, to their country. And kill themselves. There is no one to save them.

I wish, at the end of this narrative that I could say something more hopeful. That somehow, all the young men and women who have given their lives in this service did the right thing. I am not so sure. I lament. All of that service. If I had a son or daughter, the government would have to kill me to get them inside a war. It is not so much that the pacifist has returned, as it is my faith in my country, at that level, has been destroyed. I have zero faith in our leadership. Our military leadership in particular seems absolutely incompetent. Our soldiers seem better than ever, those precious young people. With their really great equipment and their dedication. Betrayed by their country. Left all alone to die in pain and isolation and confusion.

I think back sometimes to my experience getting to know George Patton’s son. He was such a pig of a man. He really enjoyed collecting “souvenirs” from the dead bodies of Vietnamese. I watched him do that quite a few times. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. He tried to steal my camera on one occasion. I stood up to him and insisted he give it back and finally he did. Seeing and feeling this incompetent pig of a man was the beginning of my loss of faith. Like many students of history, I sure admired his father. To this day I admire his father. I think all my heroes are people who lived and died a long time ago.

It has been many years ago, so many years, that I was a soldier. Funny really. It seems like it was just the other day. Under dark and stormy skies. Before the rain begins to fall.


©2015 Turtle Heart : For the World Journey : Pantelleria Island

Tuesday, February 03, 2015

Public Death By Military Service : Suicide of Our Vets

copyright ©2015 Turtle Heart
Editorial Opinion

I am 66 years old today. I am a Vietnam vet. 1969. HHC : 1/18th : 1st Inf Div : MOS 91 Charlie. Yes. It was heartbreaking. I came home an animal. An unhappy animal. The old Indians saved me. From myself. From the wounds and rage.

Today. 22 vets will kill themselves. Suicide. Death and Gone. Every fucking day. There was only one man, to use the term loosely, who said no to important help for those men and women. Tom Coburn. A legal, registered and numbered and enrolled Oklahoma American Indian. A final poke in the ye before he crawled back under the rock he hides under when the sun is shining.

Today, on my birthday, the bill is supposed to be passed through, at last. So all of us who expected so much, are at last relieved. Until we find out it is not enough. And that’s what we will find out.

The Islamic State and the AlQuida cowards/sick dogs, must take a lot of satisfaction in this news. No one in America has ever publicly addressed this sad aspect of the death by suicide of our young people fighting for our “freedom”. This is clearly yet another way in which "the terrorists are winning"....

I have lived 46 years since coming home from my generation’s war. Thank you Grandfather. Somebody cared and helped me and reached out and saved me. I was suicidal when I came back. I was also a bit homicidal. I considered signing up for the coming “revolution”. Not many people realize, even today, that there were planes and ideas and money and people, serious people, thinking about an armed attack on the United Staes Government. On the personal level I was a dangerous, malcontented American Citizen. I had the good sense to look for help. It was nowhere to be found in the government, at the VA or in church I could find anywhere. My parents wanted nothing to do with me. Zero. They were terrified and disgusted. My brother was already smashed and burned up, yet still alive in a destroyed body, from his journey to Vietnam a few years before. We have not spoken a word since 1971. Not one word. Tomorrow he will be 70 years old. Another vet who lived those years.

These lost soldiers break my heart. Suicide. Twenty Two or more every day. 22. Aren’t statistics just great? Those lost lives. Those fatherless children. Those widows. Those mothers and fathers who buried their children. Our United States Congress. Our Senators. Rush Limbaugh. Bill Maher. Scott Walker. Chris Christy. War criminal Richard “The Balls” Cheney. From the fields of sorrow, into the wilderness of conservative politics and the “colored” United States President. Contrasts and Outrage. A search for coherence. A difficult, painful and confusing search it is. Wandering in the darkness without a light.

If some mad dog was murdering 22 people every day, the entire national would be mobilized. The truth is, is is rarely mentioned. It appears to be a more or less invisible wound, un-addressed in American Society.

My 46 years of life after surviving my war. The struggle of that experience, my friends, has never gone away. It has not full healed. I have not completely forgiven. My country. Myself. Happy Birthday Turtle Heart. Welcome Home. May God Bless You. Peace To You My Brother….yes. I accept.

46 years ago I went Under the Drum. I went inside the The old Indians carried me. I was able to pass through and keep going. Originally I wanted to be a biologist/zoologist, a man of science working with Animals. The War changed all that. In order to survive I had to make different choices. I had to pass through hell, through loneliness and isolation, through fists and jails and fear to hold that sacred pipe, to be touched by that eagle feather, to find that song. To become a Keeper of the sacred peace, of the awakened dreamer. I did that. Myself. All alone, almost on four legs. Bleeding but not broken. Enraged but yet my hands remained open and I took responsibility and I opened my heart.

Today I felt tears on my cheek as I watched yet another clip of tom coburn saying no to helping the new vets. Tears when I heard that maybe today, now that he is gone at last, the bill will pass. Four vets have killed themselves as I write this and wait for the server to post it. At least one will take himself out as you read this.

But, anyway, how about that Patriot’s game? That was great, hey?

William Frederic Posey
RA 11710033

United Staes Army (discharged)

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Silence of the Waves : Shouting At the Sea : Wabeeno Calls Out Twenty Fifteen

Twenty fifteen. The Annual Predictions : 
I am not Charlie

Welcome to the Year of the Wild Mountain Goat
Rising six degrees of Libra and a moon in twenty of Taurus….

Air and Earth. Shiny rocks. Winds filled with grit and abrasion.

Slow moving, frantic patience.

Change? Yes. With lots and lots of shadows. And never enough Cleaners.

If Bill Maher and Rush Limbaugh had a baby, it would be twins, they would grow up to be Ali Bhagdadi and Dick Cheney.

Phony Courage : The Bravado of the Clueless
Killing cartoonist avenges the prophet. Yes, that sounds about right. The 1.7 quazillion Muslims tell us “it’s not me”. Of course.
The emptiness. The new normal.
Having said that, I am, myself, not Charlie. Not in any way. I see no value at all in this work of vile cartoons, regardless of the so-called subject. That 12 or more human beings gave their lives for it is tragic even while it was predictable. I am not Charlie and I am not French. The French are overdosing on Charlie.

The Pope of Rome will continue to surprise. It is going to be dangerous. For him. The other World Leaders continue to snooze. He may in fact be in some danger. Perhaps his sheer audacity will protect him. The American Indians still get nothing from the Church of Rome. Francis is making canonization of a padre in California who brutally murdered, tortured and suppressed the kind and peaceful American Indians of California for many years. How can a mad who did these things become a saint? For the American Indians, it is still the same old Pope.

The “Imitation Game” contains perhaps evidence of the most damning revelation in modern times. Proof that our leaders, our generals, our saviors are all liars. All cowards. I don’t think it has really “hit home” yet. I am waiting. For the thunder to roll. Freedom weeps; hiding in a dark shadow. All alone. This shows no sign of slowing down.

The American Political Right approaches a line, of the clearly “unspeakable ignorance” that once was preserved against, in the democratic method. It is gone. We now know where “Mister going in his black shiny car in the night”….Gray is the new azure. The sky itself is turning against us. It would seem. No discussions. No debates. No agreements. No support. No services. No mercy. No facts: the No Platform of the GOP…

Saudi Arabia : Root of Moral Darkness: Hiding in plain sight. Untouchable.

Lots of bullets. Billions of them.

The Mother Earth continues to suffer. Every animal on earth is hiding and trying to survive humanity. Many more will lose the fight this year and go extinct. Meanwhile US Senator Ted Cruz is the Chairman of the Science group (or something similar). The Great Ocean cannot breathe. She is in an illegal choke hold.

The Truth is bolemic. Starving herself. She has Friends but they are in hiding, or silenced, or in prison. Or under contract to INC, the new God.

Turtle Heart : Pantelleria Island

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Winter Solstice 00:03 22 December 2014 : Ceremony Zero

Morning Fire ©2014 Turtle Heart

A ceremony we called Zero.

Up in the little Alps, in the Piemonte Region, a group of us, we people of Italy, started a 3 days ceremonial cycle with the little Morning Tobacco Fire. This simple ceremony is very ancient. It was almost certainly among the very first ways in which human beings used tobacco. Long before it was smoked, , tobacco was offered to the smoke of small fires, made in ceremony, and the mysts of the lakes and rivers when trying to find home. Tobacco started its life as food for god. Something of a mirror image to a ceremony like “communion”.

The old Indians believe each one of these  little fires has the same status as a temple in Japan, a Church in Texas, or a Pope in Rome. They are legally defined, protected, accepted and long established as one step in the order and method of tribal ceremony in North America. We start our ceremonies with this morning tobacco fire: we end the ceremony when the last person puts tobacco in that fire before going home, and the ceremony is finished. First and Last. A measure of the start, a mark of the finish.In this matter, the “we” I refer to is a reference to my own person and those teachers who have guided me to this point. We have all experienced, constructed, and studied the mystery life through these fires.

In my own thinking, I visualize a solstice as a specific moment in time, a quantifiable moment. A door that opens and can be passed through…so I have always worked as best I can to brin these ceremonies at the real time moment of a solstice or equinox. This year the winter  solstice as just after midnight. Some minutes before that we were as a group inside one sweat lodge, (25 people, more or less with several outside). We rode that sweat lodge right on through the solstice and came out the other side.

I brought forward my arguments for the value of these ceremonies; I call them as a matter of formality “correction ceremonies”. To a rather formidable wall of Intellectual Milanese, with, thank you so much, a few old friends buffered around this circle of masters of the wind. 

Dear Masters of the wind that brought you
Songs made with smoke may have carried you home
Standing Still, you are carried by a Great Wind ………lifted forward perhaps
… never motionless

questions were answered with smoke
a little talking fire offered
an opportunity with the silent mystery of 
receiving Medicine straight up from the earth
right in front of you
and all your relations
right where you were standing

a chance to step up in a visible manner
a single heartbeat of clarity
so maybe you passed on through
or maybe you missed it
you were, they would say, one of those 
who was right there
at that time
if that was really you…

The goal of the ceremony, in any event, was not to present an argument to convince anyone of anything. In the eyes of the old Indians it was behavior, not ideas, that was up for consideration.

We had good food from a fine kitchen, great beds, the great forest and mountains of that region and all the exceptional ambient of this region of Italy. It is easy to see and feel why so many fine wines come from this great ecological system. Our host, Adolfo, has established a very fine infrastructure and ambient of beauty for working in groups. Being close to a population center like Milan, with so many well-made facilities, it was really a perfect place to make this group ceremony. The land we used has been in the family of our host for 900 years. Like the old Indians, his land has deep and solid roots in his heart. 

If you want to see more about this year’s Winter Solstice, please reference this link.

Monday, December 01, 2014

Murder of Mike-Mike : No Charges

My heart, a regular human heart, is telling me that the words I am hearing, the video I am watching, that the defective police officer, white man Darren Wilson, will not be charged in the rage murder of Mike Brown in Ferguson Missouri…my heart tells me it is not right; the fix was in. It is not a bad feeling. Grief and a sadness, a pressure that really has no words to explain it, except to say that it is painful and profound. It has stopped me in my tracks. I have had to sit down and take this development into my spirit and assimilate it. Contain and move forward the outrage in the silent root of my spirit.

It is important to understand how carefully the system was manipulated to produce this result. It was a constructed result. It was not and was never intended to be a search for the truth of what happened. To the carefuk observer it is in fact entirely transparent. To those less willing to study the reason, the form, the method and the details, the outrage of this picture of the white, male, GOP political machine almost demands spontaneous combustion. The forces that have justified the murder of Mike Brown do not describe an alliance  of people who search for a form of sacred truth. It describes an alliance of control, privelage, domination and self interest. A circle of shallow, lazy, indolent social vampires bleeding our resources and principles of government of their core verification of justice. No justice at all.

What and when will the final catalyst arrive to correct and rebuild this corrupt police culture? Will it be the murder of Mike Brown by Darren Wilson? Certainly right after the carefully calculated late night announcement of the no bill of prosecution, people all over the world, in fact, started moving, started calling it out, started feeling in some form the feeling I have right now as I write this. We are seeing reactions come in from around the world. Major American bridges in the big cities have been shut down. Bridges? Is there some art of irony or a spontaneous message from the void in that information?

Every time, we start feeling that “enough is enough”, sensation. Reason tries to works its way through our minds…. yet the bodies keep falling. We all need to get somewhere further down the road than “enough is enough”. This has gone well beyond those sensations. It is hard to describe, but the point of irresistible force against immovable object has only one well-known result.

What about your life? What is hurting you right now? Society cannot really change. It can only reflect the growth and or the weakness of the individuals within it. If you could make progress in your life; progress against your own anger, your own mistakes, your own rage, or your own lies then perhaps the whole world could be set right. Perhaps. There are good and honorable people who tell us that it could happen just this way. That you could change your life and change the history of seven generations. Yet, my heart has this sinking feeling. As I write I expect a sign of relief, that my reason and description I can build up the power of hope. Again. It has not arrived.

24 Hours Later. A pause to work on assimilation.

Transcripts reveal there is NO cross examination of any witness supporting Wilson’s view of the situation. None. No pointing out prior inconsidstencies. None. The record reveals witness that support Wilson being allowed to say what they wanted to say and prosecutors ask them  nothing. Wilson himself testified. He made many questionable statements but was never cross-examined. Not one damn word of cross examination. The GJ did not hear a lot of facts about contradictory statements, not one word.

Examining the transcripts of this “investigation” is maddening. Attornies across the nation ridicule it for its clear posture as basically a defense investigation designed to exonerate Wilson…and a determined refusal to ask a single question that would show another narrative. I am not sure how such an investigation can even be called a legal investigation. It is shameful, a disgrace of reason and an absolute indifference to what most people would consider “search for truth”. It is beyond frustrating. It was a stacked deck from the first opening statement to the GJ.

Why? Why would the DA office want a violently uncontrolled officer like this one the police force? Why does the state feel it would be a disaster to indicte this police officer? What is the hidden agenda here? The facts of this case fly in the face of the orchestrated and clealy biased presentation to this GJ.

It is one thing to want to stand behind your police officers.  It is something else entirely to manipulate the legal system so obviously.

Discrepancies by the dozen are all over these statements made to the GJ and not a single question to push back at these statements. Such as Wilson said at first that he was hit 10 times by Nike Brown. He told the GJ he was hit two times. No one asked him about the differences. This theme was repeated throughout the friendly testimony of Wilson. There are hundreds, perhaps thousand by now, of blogs and information sites that poke 100 holes in this so-called investigation.

There are inconsistencies in Wilson's story. He estimates that Brown ran 20-30 feet away from the car and then charged another 10 feet back towards Wilson. But we know Brown died 150 feet away from the car.” This is a question from the clear-eyed logic of Ezra Klein.( He, like so many other reasonable people, does not believe Wilson. Everyone asks why there was no questioning, no attempt to explain prior inconsistent statements?

Stress. The analysis of my stress makes me very suspicious of the focused, methodic burning of the Ferguson business district. It was impossible that it was random. You jst have to pay attention. Very a-typically, there was no police present in that area. None. So it burned and that is all the MSM is talking about today and it also justifies the deployment of even more police-military control…and it changed the subject. Quickly. Fire that could have been started by one person or even better, a few people working together who had planned ahead. Not protestors. Insurgents were they? For whose side were these fires started? Who would benefit most from these fires? These very determined, focused fires of 15 business’? There is a long history of official fires being started. And it seems, so far, that the business’ that burned wre owned by local black small business owners. Just them. If true why would that be? The information on the ground right now is very troubling. Follow the questions. Just the reasonable ones.

Stress. The behavior of really stupid people can look like a conspiracy when it is not. Sometimes it is really is. The fires, 15 of them, none with video of “protestors” standing around cheering themselves. From the US President down to the street cops, the subject was changed away from Darren Wilson, the Curious Grand Jury…perhaps even the truth.

I don’t want to rant. I can’t even bring myself to pound on the table. The feeling is one of great sadness. From over here in Italy, it looks like America is in serious trouble. This entry here is just about Mike Brown. He is just one of ten thousand sorrows. From here it does not look good.

All spiritual persons care about their homeland, about their fellow citizens. We care about the children and we care about our soldiers and police. We care about the sacred nature of each precious life. As an American Indian man, I know so many stories of sorrow, of murder, of humiliation and disrespect that all American Indians carry in their memories. Most American Indians and their victimization by the police, by the government, and by the courts is invisible. We have never had a case of police murdering an American Indian to make the national news. Ever. But I find myself caring about Mike Brown, about Alisha McBride, about Travon Martin. About poor old Eleanor Bumpers way back in the 1980s.

Prosecutor Robert McCullough has lead us all down a dark path. With studied indifference and childish calculation. Without honor. And then we all went back to sleep. I sometimes think if Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut did not change anything, what hope does the future really have? The record of these so-called “proceedings” is disturbing: it does not seem to have followed the actual law.

…As I get ready to post this blog we hear about a 12 year old black child being shot to death by Ohio Police….

Police: Culture of Shame. Yes. A broad brush. I point out that the numbers of  police officers who have come out in passionate, zealous support of Wilson, from day one, are legion…all across the country. And NOW they all believe Wilson has in fact been vindicated when in fact he has not.

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