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Arizona Savagery p. 35

Arizona Savagery p. 35

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Published by David Seals

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Published by: David Seals on Aug 21, 2010
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LAND OF THE RED GIANTS OF IXTLAN Chapter 17 - Sylvan Lake: "The Libyad, book 20" In that same watershed year of 1991, when Premier Gorbachev was finallydismantling the hoax of the "Cold War" and the Berlin Wall, and the USA responded by piously taking credit for it all and then bombing the hell out of Iraq, I had lunch in thequiet and good satisfaction of the "heartland" with former US Senator Jim Abourezk. Hewas of Lebanese ancestry so naturally the topic of our conversation, at a healthy sidewalk deli on mainstreet Rapid City, turned to his work with the Arab-American anti-discrimination committee for the Palestinians, and about whom I expressed not only mysympathies but also my own high regard for their fellow Libyans, in whose country I hadlived for 3 years in the 60s as a high school "dependent" of the US Air Force."Really?" he asked, munching a salad and saying hello every two minutes to friendlyfellow citizens passing to and fro on the happy, clean sidewalks."Yes," I replied, feeling very out of place among suits and kosher pickles. "I'd love togo back there someday.""Really?"Trying with all my might not to be a smart-ass, as an up-and-coming "leader" with allthe responsibilities and mature requirements thereunto in my burgeoning 40s, Iresponded, "Yes."To make a long story pithy, I got a call the very next day from the Libyan Ambassador to the United Nations formally inviting me to Tripoli for a big conference, in whichColonel Muammar al-Qathafi's notorious Jamahiriya government was paying allexpenses for a lot of Native indigenous leaders of the entire western hemisphere to comeon over and get it together against their common enemy "The Great Satan" who was you-know-who. "Jim Abou said you would like to come," the very kind and slightly boyishvoice of Amb. Ali Treiki said on the other end of the line. It was obvious Jim Abou was avery big wheel in these international circles. I replied that yes, indeed, I'd love to come.By a circuitous route which the US State Department had concocted in their hysteriaabout Libya's alleged bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 back in 1988, in which Americanswere forbidden to travel wherever they liked, and poor Libyan slobs in tar paper shackswere deprived of food and medicine by the vitriolic US-backed economic sanctionsagainst them, I had to go to Tripoli by way of Belgium and Tunisia, and then by busacross the border into the "World's greatest exporter of Terrorism" for the 1980s and mostof the 1990s.But, as Senator Abourezk joked, "The Libyans can't get dinner together. How are theygoing to be pulling off all these elaborate terrorist attacks everywhere?"In 1992, and again in '94, we helped get some diplomatic options in the works, withtrips to The World Uranium Hearing in Salzburg Austria, and The Hague. By 1998 I wasagain in New York sipping cha-hee tea with the new Amb. Abuzed Omar Dorda, in hisluxurious penthouse suites, and discussing Barry Fell's book 'America B.C.", which had afascinating chapter titled "Libyans in Zuni", comparing the linguistic characteristics of ancient Tafinagh scripts in the North Africa desert to the Pueblo language. In betweenliterary afternoons and gourmet meals out of the "Big Black" skyscraper the slobs of theLibyan Jamahiriya {People} owned in midtown Manhattan, a few limousine-driven
 blocks to the edifices of the U.N., we made some breakthroughs in the stalematedLockerbie Pan Am 103 negotiations and arranged for the alleged bombers to go to theWorld Court in The Hague. The Libyan Government officially thanked me for my work in the long and complicated work, and offered to help fund the Bear Butte Council back home, as well. I in turn wrote a long review of the "Brother Colonel" and his book 'Escape to Hell' on their geocities website.Muhammad Matri at the Embassy, Mustafa Fetouri in Belgium, and the anti-Qathafiopposition in Minneapolis led by Tariq Bagdadi all assured me we'd never see a penny of investment or an official word of endorsement or government-to-government recognitionfrom the Libyans, "because the CIA yanks their chain." It was true. To this day nothinghas been forthcoming from the Tifinaghs to the Zunis of a substantial nature. Rumors, probably instigated by the CIA and NSA or whatever other nefarious agency is currentlyworking at the Libyan Desk [for reference see Lawrence Durrell's 'The AlexandriaQuartet' or John LeCarre's film 'The Constant Gardener'], that AIM has gotten millionsfrom Libya, the Irish Republican Army, or Madame Blavatsky are all horseshit. RichardGrass is still living in a hovel across the street from Thelma Rios, even after numeroustrips to Geneva and New York paid for by the UNPO (Unrepresented Nations andPeoples Organization) or the Council of Churches to present detailed paperwork aboutthe Treaty, genocide according to the Geneva Convention and the InternationalDeclaration of Human Rights, and compacts among our many nations.But what I did get done, and recited from memory at the 2000-year old amphitheatresat Sabratha and Leptis Magna, was another epic 'The Libyad'. Invited again in the year 2000 and again in '02, the tale of a peaceful Libyan named Muhammad practicing trueJihad, and imprisoned and tortured for years in military brigs in Israel and Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota, without legal representation or redress of grievances,resonated in the perfect acoustics of those ancient theatres. In high school we had doneShakespeare's Julius Caesar out there. The kind and gentle Libyans loved it, especiallythe comparison of a Jihadist with Crazy Horse, in a magical underground cave under theappropriately named Sylvan Lake high in the sacred Black Hills: The Libyad, book 20 ________________  "He was baptizing the mutltitudes at the Temple-Tomb where the sacred running creek comes froma cave, emerging from the source of the great Underworldwhere the elders and relatives said Crazy Horsewas born. It was a lovely sunny day where they hadwalked all morning in the Black Hills, up, uphillalong the gently rising canyons and granite gorgesuntil the creek grew smaller, thinner, colder in the rocky ridges, where icewater came outof the ground; until they were in other extra-geographical caves, under mountainous rocksshaped like men, carved, under a Sylvan Lake past the manmade mountains: under other mortal
Otherness. The desperate sinners of dishonest mankindclamored about him for help, healing, benefaction,asking, "Master, do you know Mount Rushmore,the temple of the American gods, is just over there?Over there." They were not speaking familiarly,no common sense in their desperate clamor as hewashed their minds of sinful Disbelief, greedytruthlessness and fear; glancing over his shoulder  beyond the cave and creek to a corner of whiteshining granite like marble where George Washingtonwatched them sternly, and implacable Jefferson,Lincoln like Ahab or Daniel glowering at the killer apes of the world like Pluto, darkly, in black Old Testament suits of rotten death, and the richRoosevelt gloating from the rocky mountain.The Black Hills of South Dakota in the United Statesgrew grayly, cloudily, from western thunderstormsuntil icewater came out of the spongy rocksand the faithless congregation, talking in manytongues, nightmarish mankind, ran for cover fromthe night of unnatural day; but Muhammadstood in the rain and prayed with his armsoutstretched, dangerously near the heightswhere electrical storms strike.He saw Zeidon the ledge over the Grotto of Panleading into the river's source, terrifyingZeus of Banyas, the Temple-Tomb of the Goatsat Caesarea Philippi where he had prayed many timesin the thunderbolts. "Get out of the rain,you idiot!" his father roared. They both duckedinto the damp black grotto where an old Indianintroduced himself as Worm.People outsidein the gray daylight of unnatural life wonderedwhy the Baptizer had disappeared, and where.He saw them huddling blindly in the cold wind.He didn't know whether to embrace his father or not, who seemed aloof and relaxed likea spirit in a dream; and he was younger than hehad been at the end of his life, healthier like his son remembered him. Their talk was notconsecutive, or sequential, nor was the Templeof Pan at the grotto on Mount Hermon exactlyas he remembered it on the high Golan plateauover the hot deserts around Galilee, Iturea,

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