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 finally dismantling 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 the quiet and good satisfaction of the "heartland" with former US Senator Jim Abourezk. He was 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 antidiscrimination committee for the Palestinians, and about whom I expressed not only my sympathies but also my own high regard for their fellow Libyans, in whose country I had lived 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 friendly fellow 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 to go back there someday." "Really?" Trying with all my might not to be a smart-ass, as an up-and-coming "leader" with all the responsibilities and mature requirements thereunto in my burgeoning 40s, I responded, "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 which Colonel Muammar al-Qathafi's notorious Jamahiriya government was paying all expenses for a lot of Native indigenous leaders of the entire western hemisphere to come on over and get it together against their common enemy "The Great Satan" who was youknow-who. "Jim Abou said you would like to come," the very kind and slightly boyish voice of Amb. Ali Treiki said on the other end of the line. It was obvious Jim Abou was a very 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 hysteria about Libya's alleged bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 back in 1988, in which Americans were forbidden to travel wherever they liked, and poor Libyan slobs in tar paper shacks were deprived of food and medicine by the vitriolic US-backed economic sanctions against them, I had to go to Tripoli by way of Belgium and Tunisia, and then by bus across the border into the "World's greatest exporter of Terrorism" for the 1980s and most of the 1990s. But, as Senator Abourezk joked, "The Libyans can't get dinner together. How are they going 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, with trips to The World Uranium Hearing in Salzburg Austria, and The Hague. By 1998 I was again in New York sipping cha-hee tea with the new Amb. Abuzed Omar Dorda, in his luxurious penthouse suites, and discussing Barry Fell's book 'America B.C.", which had a fascinating chapter titled "Libyans in Zuni", comparing the linguistic characteristics of ancient Tafinagh scripts in the North Africa desert to the Pueblo language. In between literary afternoons and gourmet meals out of the "Big Black" skyscraper the slobs of the Libyan Jamahiriya {People} owned in midtown Manhattan, a few limousine-driven

blocks to the edifices of the U.N., we made some breakthroughs in the stalemated Lockerbie Pan Am 103 negotiations and arranged for the alleged bombers to go to the World 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-Qathafi opposition 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 recognition from the Libyans, "because the CIA yanks their chain." It was true. To this day nothing has 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 currently working at the Libyan Desk [for reference see Lawrence Durrell's 'The Alexandria Quartet' or John LeCarre's film 'The Constant Gardener'], that AIM has gotten millions from Libya, the Irish Republican Army, or Madame Blavatsky are all horseshit. Richard Grass is still living in a hovel across the street from Thelma Rios, even after numerous trips to Geneva and New York paid for by the UNPO (Unrepresented Nations and Peoples Organization) or the Council of Churches to present detailed paperwork about the Treaty, genocide according to the Geneva Convention and the International Declaration of Human Rights, and compacts among our many nations. But what I did get done, and recited from memory at the 2000-year old amphitheatres at 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 true Jihad, 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 done Shakespeare's Julius Caesar out there. The kind and gentle Libyans loved it, especially the comparison of a Jihadist with Crazy Horse, in a magical underground cave under the appropriately named Sylvan Lake high in the sacred Black Hills: The Libyad, book 20 ________________ "He was baptizing the mutltitudes at the TempleTomb where the sacred running creek comes from a cave, emerging from the source of the great Underworld where the elders and relatives said Crazy Horse was born. It was a lovely sunny day where they had walked all morning in the Black Hills, up, uphill along the gently rising canyons and granite gorges until the creek grew smaller, thinner, colder in the rocky ridges, where icewater came out of the ground; until they were in other extrageographical caves, under mountainous rocks shaped like men, carved, under a Sylvan Lake past the manmade mountains: under other mortal

Otherness. The desperate sinners of dishonest mankind clamored 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 he washed their minds of sinful Disbelief, greedy truthlessness and fear; glancing over his shoulder beyond the cave and creek to a corner of white shining granite like marble where George Washington watched 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 rich Roosevelt gloating from the rocky mountain. The Black Hills of South Dakota in the United States grew grayly, cloudily, from western thunderstorms until icewater came out of the spongy rocks and the faithless congregation, talking in many tongues, nightmarish mankind, ran for cover from the night of unnatural day; but Muhammad stood in the rain and prayed with his arms outstretched, dangerously near the heights where electrical storms strike. He saw Zeid on the ledge over the Grotto of Pan leading into the river's source, terrifying Zeus of Banyas, the Temple-Tomb of the Goats at Caesarea Philippi where he had prayed many times in the thunderbolts. "Get out of the rain, you idiot!" his father roared. They both ducked into the damp black grotto where an old Indian introduced himself as Worm. People outside in the gray daylight of unnatural life wondered why 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 like a spirit in a dream; and he was younger than he had been at the end of his life, healthier like his son remembered him. Their talk was not consecutive, or sequential, nor was the Temple of Pan at the grotto on Mount Hermon exactly as he remembered it on the high Golan plateau over the hot deserts around Galilee, Iturea,

and Jordan: and the images of Mount Rushmore were mixed in too with the tale the old Worm was telling them of his son as they walked deep into the black legendary cavern. Muhammad in his sleep knew he was also fully awake because he knew that exquisite blackness within blackness was all the Source of all the miracles and eternity he would ever need to know. The words were part of it. "Do you want to die?" the voice of God asked. "No," he replied, and in that answer lay his Geodesy. It was enough that a swirl and pleasing cacophony of many tongues chattered at him like water trickling, echoing off the walls all around him, like Nemesis, the goddess Echo in love with Pan. Banyas was his home, the Arabic translation of Panion of the Greeks, of great Alexander who prayed there, and Gad the eldest of the shepherd Jacob called it Baal Gad to oppose the nearby temple of Dan. It was part of the whole labyrinth of the mythic grammar that ran from Mount Zionai of Isaac to Baalbek and Delphi, Avalon, the Black Hills aligned to the shaft of the Arrow on earth from the belt of Orion, from Sirius, Osiris, the feather of the Sacred Arrow, the universal World Mountain a configuration of stars on earth seen by the Prophets. He was flying through space westwards from Sirius across Atlantis to Orion and out to the arrowhead Hawai'i, the Pleiades in the Pacific, the sacred paradise Oceanus. "Hawai'i," Annie cooed nakedly beside him like the doves on Oahu, on the rainbow mauka mountains green, black with lava heiau temples of the first Polynesian British, sailors, star-voyagers, astronauts steering by hokule'a the north star, the whole planet guided by the stars, and Annie, nakedly fragrant of plumeria and babies. "Your whole life passing before you, behind you, Brah?" Worm joked, almost maliciously, horny Pan, Mobruk in a room of the palace glittering with silver crystal. Muhammad was startled again in his dank dark underground prison cell at the instantaneous magic of the Other World, and Zeid his father smiled at him too. "We're in jail, you know? Qathafi busted our asses." Asses and goats, clean and sleek like well-fed pets, walked on the tables

and sat on the chairs like family. "Grandson," Zeid smiled happily, petting a gray jackass. He did not seem to know that his death was redeemed by his son's kinder memory of Islam, Arabia, due, renewed by memory, to some better impulse freed of his father's old patriotism and money, fundamentalism, fear, what Annie had called "this physical gravity." Their minds were better for it, and they liked each other as they had when they were younger, freer, friendlier. Worm was telling them about his own great son and how he was Crazy Horse only when the boy was safe at home, with his mother, and their family, while the warriors were out protecting them from enemies, hunting buffalo, stealing horses from the Crows and Snakes. "You call me Hercules because I have killed men, like Crazy Horse too, the father angrier and more violent than the son? I was the murderous general at Golan with the 68th Syrian Brigade in 1973, October 11th to be exact, a Thursday. We were facing the Israeli 7th and Barak brigades under General Eytan, after days of bloody fighting. We were with the Moroccan Brigade and remnants of the shattered 7th Infantry Division. Remember? You were there. Rafiq Hilawi commanded the 68th. Eytan opened the attack at 11 AM along our right flank at Mt. Hermon. After negotiating the thick mine fields along his front, Colonel Ben-Gal's 7th Brigade smashed us at the Hader crossroads. Our unit broke. The 7th reached the Hader junction about 3 miles east of the Purple Line. The Barak Brigade on the south managed to penetrate several miles farther, capturing the Druze village of Horfa. But the going was slow and the fighting tough for all of us." In the residue of the grotto Muhammad sat with Worm, old soldiers remembering losses and victories, wars, poignancy, reflection, remaining philosophically upon them. Telepathic words of "rivalry, competition" were spoken, "of the conquests and ideas

of my father, Worm, which do not survive the great leveller of death. What does it matter now who won a few miles of a road, or the sovereignty of Syria, Israel, or even Libya? I know that Crazy Horse must surely feel as I do." Worm nodded. "Yes. He was a gentle boy, not a warrior. I was the one history, fiction, confused with him with the love for fast horses, battle, and Nation. That's where you are wrong about your father, though, Muhammad, and your judgement, condemnation, of him. Ghosts haunt him too, of those he's killed. I know. But it is an act, we thought, of survival, butchery no different than the bloody hunt to feed our families. Your Hercules is not wrong, or evil - just human, an animal somehow trying to sacrifice his skin to his own spirit, for his own god, his own spirit. My son was born here, in this cave, on this creek, like a dream. You're a father so you know what I mean. He was your Dionysus, whom we call Iktomi, a Trickster too smart for his own good, unliked, a peaceful poet or prophet despised by rational men. He was not well-liked. Nor was I. Nor are you." Muhammad understood and sighed deeply of the cave air, thick and dank like a tomb, a jail cell, an echoing grotto. He thought of the Golan Heights and his many years there on that bare expanse of black basalt rock unmarked by trees, with miserable dustladen hamlets, houses hewn of black stone, a scene studded with burned out tanks, shattered vehicles, smoking ammunition trucks, fleeing panic-stricken villagers with donkeys laden with bedding, women with babies, shepherds watching their flocks in the wretched pastures exploding with shells, bleak, northward from Kuneitra, nauseating flesh and decapitated corpses in piles everywhere. It could have been Wounded Knee, or the Little Bighorn, he supposed, musing in the dark underneath Mount Rushmore. He had to go hide in the caves at Banyas Falls too, there, up in the hills far away

from the soldiers who had cheered his ambush tactics and victories, his absurd efforts at authentic Jihad misunderstood. He went up and away from them all to the cold springs of the source of the Jordan River, below steep cliffs. He missed his father's company. He grieved for their loneliness, as Jesus must have grieved also, and Gad, and Abraham. His father had long long been his best friend and partner. They had dreamed of great deeds together, as Jesus did surely dream with Herod of his father's house, and Masada, Caesarea, Jericho, and the Gospels funded by his brother Philip the Tetrarch, the Caesars and Augusti of the imperial college St. Mark recorded, and Homer, and Merlin, of Troy; of Constantine Merlin's grandfather rebuilding Troy at Constantinople, the Christian Emperor from Troy. Oh, he sighed, and stared at the icicles and stalagtites like Sirius and Orion pointing to the Pleiades, the single continuous story of 'The Geodesy' from Troy running unbroken like a starry silver Arrow from Homer. Zeid loved the Holy Suras but he'd been a peasant, a poorly educated worker who rose to warriorhood in the 1930s with Omar Mukhtar, fighting Mussolini. What else could he have done? What else could he do? He hoped for his son to be better than him, wiser, braver; but he didn't know that would lead to Dionysian truths, rebellious Revolution against war, labor, hunting, Libyan or Arabic patriotism and Islamic propriety. Zeid didn't know it meant imprisonment would mean death, destruction of the rebellions of both patriotisms, and himself synonymous, simultaneous, with the seeds, twins in the scriptural rewrites of their modern millenial history, symbols of Zeus and Son stalked by the vengeful Mother Goddess Eve, co-creator making the Myth possible by making the unnatural Anti-Natural Eggs in the first place; what Worm would call

Thunderbird Eggs, crystals, cavern people, underworld Aliens like Iktomi emerging in the sunlight, blinding Zeus, while Hera kills Dionysus for the sins of the father. Only Pan or Worm could tell Zeus all about it, Uncle Mobruk in Mecca, and Muhammad in his mighty vision heard Fatima explain that she was Goddess Libya." [end of Chapter 17]

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