What are you looking at, friend? Just an old, simple pot, blackened by rust and filled with scraps. It’s sitting on an old wood-burning stove; the water is boiling, and white steam is swirling under the lid, whistling away. Inside that bubbling water, there are big chunks of meat swimming around with bones, fat, and potatoes.
It doesn't look like this old pot is trying to send you some profound message, and I don't think you're going to waste your time overthinking it. At best, the cozy smell of soup just reminds you that you're hungry. Or maybe you're worried it might be dog meat. As far as the meat goes, don't sweat it. It’s just beef—not some thick puppy meant for a ceremony. Just your everyday meal. But, being American, I tend to dwell on the ordinary, unassuming things, like this pot right here. Boiling water comes from rain clouds and sits in the sky. Fire comes from the sun and warms all of us—people, animals, trees. The meat represents the four-legged creatures, our brothers from the animal kingdom who give their lives so that we may live. Steam is the living breath. Before it was water, now it’s heading to the heavens to become a cloud once again. These things are sacred. And looking into this soup pot, I can't help but think about how Wakan Tanka looks after me. We Little Bighorn Sioux spend a lot of time reflecting on the little things; in our minds, the mundane and the spiritual just sort of blend together. In the world around us, we see countless symbols telling us about the significance of life. We have a saying that the white man sees so little because he seems to look with only one eye. We see plenty of things that you Americans don't even notice anymore—things you probably wouldn't catch if you weren't so busy. We Americans live in a world of symbols and imagery—a world where the spiritual and the everyday are one and the same. For you, symbols are just spoken words or things written in a book. For us, they are parts of nature, parts of ourselves: the earth, the sun, the wind, the rain, the stones, the trees, the animals, even tiny insects like ants and grasshoppers. We don't try to understand them with our heads, but with our hearts, so we only need a tiny hint to grasp their meaning.
What looks like a coincidence to you carries a special meaning in our symbolism. It’s funny, really—we don't even have a specific word for "symbolism," even though we live within it constantly. You guys have a word for it, and that’s about it. Look at this belt, Richard! (Richard Erdoes, co-author of the book, pseudo-LD). My grandmother made this. You say it’s beautiful, and I appreciate that, because I’m actually going to give it to you. But it’s more than just pretty; it tells a whole story. All you see are geometric beadwork patterns—lines, triangles, diamonds—but behind them lie my grandfather's works. This diamond (1) is a feather earned by a warrior for brave deeds. These rectangles missing one side (2) represent hoofprints. They represent ponies snatched from an enemy. This shape represents a horse killed in battle, whose rider was saved by my grandfather. These two triangles (3) are arrows fired at the enemy. So, this belt tells a story of battle. A woman's belt might carry entirely different signs, marks representing her love for nature. These lines (4) are the paths she walked. These are the leaves she brushed against along the way (5). This is what a butterfly (6) looks like when it lands on her shoulder. This triangle with steps (7) is a distant ridge. The next sign represents clouds (8), and these three diamonds represent a tornado (9).
The belt tells the story of a young woman who wanders into a storm while walking, gets soaked, and rushes home to eventually make this belt. Of course, girls can make belts for their sweethearts featuring whatever their heart desires. He’d understand.
Usually, these kinds of abstract symbols come from women. Men tend to draw figures of people and animals more realistically, just as they see them, though naturally, there are still hidden meanings tucked behind their drawings. Take this landscape, for example. A friend of mine painted it. All you see are two hills, the sky above them, the prairie, a dark valley with a few sagebrush bushes, a canyon, and a spring. Now, this isn't a landscape at all. It’s a woman's body. The hills are her breasts, the gentle grassy plain is her body, and that valley with the spring—that's her...It’s all about her femininity. My friend didn't paint that just to poke fun at you. I suspect he saw the female form as this magnificent landscape. He couldn't help but include that valley with its deep gorge. That is the center of a woman; that is her power; that place is sacred—Wakan. It’s a symbol of love and creation. Personally, I think the painting is gorgeous.
Symbols let us "write" without needing an alphabet. With symbols, we can describe abstract thoughts in a way that everyone understands. Two hands like these (10) reaching toward one another signify peace. A man holding a pipe (11) represents prayer. This is a medicine man (12). His eyes are closed; he’s having a vision—enlightenment. Those wavy lines descending upon his head? That’s the power of the spirit flowing into him. A man surrounded by dots like this one (13) carries the fear that the things surrounding him might crowd him too tightly, pressing in from all sides.
You know what gives me a good chuckle? Hearing young people calling others "squares" or "straights"—basically describing older folks who are so set in their ways that their worldviews, hearts, and minds have become totally rigid. And you don't have to be old to fall into that trap. You can be an "old square" at eighteen. Regardless, the idea of labeling someone a "square" probably has roots in our own traditions too.
The fundamental symbol of American Indian thought is the circle. Everything in nature is circular. Human bodies, animal bodies—they don't have corners. For us, the circle represents the unity of people sitting around a fire; family and friends joined in peace while the pipe passes from hand to hand. The camp itself, where every tipi stands in its place, was shaped like a circle. Even the tipi was a circle where people sat in a circle. Every family in the village formed a circle within a larger circle, which was part of an even bigger circle: the seven council fires of the Sioux that made up the nation. And that nation was just a small part of a universe made of circles—the Earth is round, the sun is round, the planets are round. The paths of the planets, the horizon, a rainbow—it’s just circles within circles, moving in cycles with no beginning and no end.
To us, there's a certain beauty and logic in that—the symbol matching reality: a reflection of the harmony between life and nature. Our circle is timeless and fluid; it’s the new life pulling itself free from the claws of death, the life that triumphs over death.
The White man's symbol is the square. His house has four corners; his office is a square with walls designed to separate one person from another. Squares are the doors that leave your friends standing outside; squares are dollar bills; squares are prisons. The square represents all the technical clutter of White society: boxes, boxes, boxes, and more boxes—TVs, radios, washing machines, computers, cars. All of them have corners and sharp edges—deadlines, White man's time, appointments, clocks, and rush hours—to me, that all just translates to corners and edges. A person becomes a prisoner within all those little boxes.
More and more White people are trying to be less "hard" and "angular," attempting to be round and find their way into our circle. That’s a good thing.
From birth to death, we Americans are wrapped in blankets covered in symbols. A newborn's cradleboard is adorned with symbols to usher in a life of health and happiness. A dead man's moccasins are crafted specifically to ease his transition to the next world. For the same reason, we have tattoos on our arms—not the kind your sailors have, with anchors, hearts, and naked women—but names, a few letters, or specific signs. The owl-woman who guards the path to the spirit dwellings looks for those tattoos before letting us through. These markings on the skin act like a passport. Many believe that if you don't have these marks, the spirit woman won't let you pass and will toss you into the abyss instead. Then you're stuck wandering the earth forever as a wanagi—a ghost. All you can do then is haunt people and whistle. Maybe being a wanagi isn't even a bad thing. Maybe it’d be fun. Who knows? But, as you can see, my hands are tattooed.
- People tend to toss the "paranoia" label around way too fast at the first sign of anything unusual—but honestly, how many people actually bother to follow the breadcrumbs of their logic? 😢
- Those living with schizophrenia see right through the masks we wear, and they get genuinely stung by even the slightest hint of phoniness. That’s why "normal" society tends to resent them so much.
If you’re a therapist looking to work with them, you have to be brutally honest—with yourself and with the patient. Period.
You have to make sure they know you SINCERELY UNDERSTAND them, even when they're literally threatening your life! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(You know what I mean—that kind of unconditional empathy.)
P.S. What if Wilhelm Reich was actually onto something regarding aliens and stars starting to lose their minds after he blasts them with his CLOUDBUSTER and hijacks their organic energy???
😕 🙄
Rea: It’s easy enough to tear those houses down... especially when they were built on sand and shaky ground to begin with... 😉
Bradley Fisher20: because the surrounding environment just isn't giving enough feedback
man, just sit back and enjoy the ride
*** Nika:
from what I gather, you absolutely have to have someone guiding the "session." If you don't, there's a real risk of someone just losing their footing or totally drifting away from reality
one single session isn't going to cut it either—we're talking about a complete paradigm shift here. if you actually grasp it, it can be devastating; honestly, it could end up doing way more harm than good...
sorry for quoting this absolute mess of a thread... I only just spotted the topic, but my heroic-schizophrenic heart😁 simply couldn't resist
No123
I haven't had the chance to really dive deep into your post yet, but at a glance, it looks like it could be pretty fascinating...
magic said:Man... what do you mean by "recovering" from schizophrenia?🙄 You can't just shake it off. People with milder cases can barely scrape by without constant therapy, and even then, it's a struggle.
I was actually pretty shaken up watching "A Beautiful Mind." It wasn't the movie itself that got to me—it was how eerily accurate they made the symptoms and the progression of the illness feel.
How can you be so sure your assumptions are even right? 🙄
Bradley Fisher20: anyone interested in this territory?
👍 I'm here!
***
shadowgardener12, sorry—I just wanted to poke the bear a little because I know you’re capable of thinking things through more clearly than most, and honestly, I didn't think you'd be the type to get worked up easily. Besides, I'm actually constantly impressed by how sharp and lucid your posts are...
Demon on the left shoulder: way too much brown-nosing going on here 😠
I'm with you on everything you listed, but I have to say, this specific part...
...psychedelics in mental healthcare? Are you kidding me? Not even if your life depended on it! People who are already struggling mentally just get handed some numbing agent, or worse, yet another burden they have to deal with: addiction. Most psychotropic drugs are basically just a violation of the brain and the psyche! So go ahead, keep at it. It helps keep a person as a walking corpse, sure, but does it actually heal them?
It sounds like the result of a superficial understanding of psychedelic therapy principles (within which there are many different schools of thought)...
I've always found it hilarious when people bring up the whole "fry your brain" nonsense in this context. Just look at the LD-50 toxic dose for LSD-25! Now compare that to the psychotropic drugs used in mainstream psychiatry 😲
Bradley Fisher says: But there wasn't enough interest in commercializing it.
That's a total euphemism—just think about how much of a stir they caused back when Alpert (Ram Dass) and the late Timothy Leary were running their experiments... I think the core idea is right, but you're being way too polite about it...
There was success, though—Leary writes in his autobiography, "The Unknown Journey," about successes with inmates—hardened criminals—who, after a professional introduction to the inner world and psychedelic therapy, were weeping like babies. For the first time in their lives, they felt worthy... loved, not just by therapists and their own kind... but by the Divine itself.
I don't know the exact percentages of "cured" cases off the top of my head, but the numbers are significant—well over 60%...
We aren't talking about a "plug a pill in and everything will be fine" system here. You can use anything in any way you want. Of course, some of the methods you mentioned are also utilized—there were even two psychotherapists who went so far as to lie in bed with their patients during sessions (a unique experiment, to be sure) to help resolve repressed traumas.
The thing is... how many psychotherapists are actually capable of breaking down their own worldview enough to effectively use these methods? How many of them truly understand the schizophrenic world from the inside?
And how do you treat schizophrenia when those people eventually have to return to a schizophrenic world?
In the next few days, I'll send over an excerpt from the book CHARACTER ANALYSIS by Wilhelm Reich, specifically the Chapter: the devil in the schizophrenic process—which, in my humble opinion, is one of the best diagnoses of schizophrenia ever written. The proponents of so-called anti-psychiatry, like Szasz and Laing, later built upon his work (often without even giving him credit—
offtopic: which is why I never liked that jerk Erich Fromm. He scooped up Reich's ideas—they even spent some time together in Berlin—without once mentioning his "crazy" mentor 😢 )
shadowgardener12 said:Psychedelics for mental health treatment? Are you out of your mind!? Not even if my life depended on it. Someone who is already struggling mentally gets handed these things that just numb them out, or worse, they get an extra burden to deal with—addiction! All these psychotropic drugs are basically just a violation of the brain and the psyche. Go right ahead then. They help keep a person functioning like a walking corpse, but to actually heal? Forget it.
Schizophrenia is essentially losing your grip on both your internal reality and the world around you.
Split personality, sure, but Nika, what exactly is being split here? There has to be something—some "constituent parts"—that this comes from! Be consistent for once and look past the symptoms. Maybe we should look deeper toward some dark, underlying cause?
Exactly, it’s about those chaotic psychic forces breaking away and seizing control over the conscious mind. The trigger is unknown; it all depends on a mix of individual internal and external factors.
However, there are known methods used to balance and harmonize the psyche, and in my opinion, chemical substances definitely don't belong in that category.
👎 👎 👎
So, why don't you list one of those methods?
And just as a side note—schizophrenia is a syndrome, which is just a cluster of symptoms, much like how AIDS works.😲
Jack Harris3 said:Wizard felt that witches should be able to handle things themselves, and he never actually wanted to just go around deleting every idiot or provocateur who popped up. As far as I'm concerned, I'm happy to extend the same kind of arrangement I have with the Wizard to all of you. I'm not here to meddle in your business; I'll only step in if you specifically ask me to.
To be more precise: I'll act on Solaris's wishes, since she's the one who started this whole topic.
I'm with you on that... honestly, it would be a real shame if the Wizard just... flew off into the sunset. 😢
Jack Harris3, I think I've grasped the basics, but let's push this thing a little further. Let's say anyone who... goes full sushi spine and all that kind of stuff...
😎
In the name of Watashi, his son, and the holy spirit—amen. 😁
Solaris, hold on a second—I’m not trying to force this topic out of the shadows, I really am, but I don't think just pointing out that we're on a public forum is enough to explain this irrational hatred of anything green. It’s acting like some kind of witch hunt.
People all over the country are dying from much worse "substances" than this, yet we’re sitting here pretending the problem doesn't even exist. 😕 😢
I still remember how much those words hit me when I first read them. I just felt this overwhelming need to share them with a group of people who, honestly, have started to mean a whole lot to me over time.
If God wills it, 😁 there’s plenty more where that came from—not just regarding Native American history, but exploring all sorts of cultures outside our own hemisphere: South America, Australia, Africa, Asia... the upper world, the lower world...
I don't think I explicitly mentioned before that I actually welcome your posts too; I just assumed it went without saying... though, let's keep things grounded and avoid getting too lost in heavy-handed philosophizing...
I’m hearing that this thread is getting under some people's skin. 😕 They’re claiming I’m just spamming and re-posting things...
My advice? Grab a cold Budweiser to calm those nerves 😁 instead of that cheap, bottom-shelf moonshine!
I just wanted to clarify that I am translating these texts from Chinese and adapting them for us... because, as far as I know, the book hasn't been released in English yet. Honestly, I spend more time working on a single top post than most people spend on a hundred comments.
Constructive criticism, questions, or explanations are always welcome, but I have zero interest in seeing the kind of nonsense being spread by krshchchchci and aganor. Your posts don't bother me—if you had asked me, I wouldn't have even thought about deleting them.
But really, where does it end if we start catering to everyone's whims? 🙂
So, grab an eraser and get to work—you have my full authorization. 😉
Please post your answers, feedback, etc., under the "Let's elect a new moderator" thread.
You’re staring straight into the blazing Sun with eyes wide open. Those brilliant rays pierce deep into your brain, flooding it with an unbearable light...
You blow into an eagle bone whistle wedged between your teeth—until that sharp, piercing sound becomes the only note left in the entire world...
Dance, dance, dance... from dawn until dusk—no food, no water, just dancing until you lose consciousness...
Pulling, tugging at a leather strap fastened to a hook embedded in your own flesh... pulling and straining until the skin stretches and tears—until you finally break free, and blood starts flowing from your chest...
This is something some of us have to endure during the Sun Dance.
A lot of people don't get why we do this. They call the Sun Dance brutal, barbaric, wild—just bloody superstition. I see it differently. Our body is the only thing we truly own. When we Americans sacrifice our flesh, we are surrendering our bodies; they are the only thing that actually belongs to us. When wakan tanki is offered a horse, a pouch of tobacco, or food for the poor, we’re just giving back things that belonged to the Great Spirit a long time ago anyway. Everything in nature was created by the Manitou Spirit; it’s all part of Him. Only our flesh is a true sacrifice—the only real act of surrender. Can we really offer Him anything less than that?
For fifty years, they tried to lock us up whenever we wanted to perform the Sun Dance; they called it a criminal act, nothing more than some Indian craziness.
The Sun Dance is our oldest and most vital ceremony, the grandfather of everything else, as my father used to say. He’s so old now that his roots seem to reach beyond the misty veil. He comes from a time before our people even had horses, rifles, or knives—from a time when it was just us, the animals, the Earth, the grass, and the sky. Nowadays, "smart" people study solar flares through massive telescopes, while tiny, man-made stars zip around the Earth like they’re running late for a meeting. They’ve even been to the moon, leaving behind a few plastic bags of urine and some of those "rubber band" wrappers. But I believe that in those long-forgotten days, the Americans knew the moon and the Sun much better, and they were far closer to them.
After enduring the winter darkness, huddled together in their meager shelters, freezing and starving like animals in hibernation, how joyful they must have felt when the Sun—the giver of life—returned in the spring to warm their aching bones?
I can just imagine one of them following a sudden impulse, standing up to dance for the Sun, using their own body as a prayer, while others—one by one—joined in.
That’s how this dance was born, and little by little, generation after generation, it gained more meaning and more respect. My father taught it to me just as it was taught to him by his father, and this cycle of teaching and learning goes back to the very dawn of time.
Wi wanyang wacipi—the Sun Dance—is our greatest festival, where the whole nation gathers. I’ve told you about hanblechii, the vision quest; that's when a man goes to a lonely hill to connect with mysterious forces. The Sun Dance means that *everyone* connects with those forces. It is the hanblechia of the entire Sioux Nation.
Of all our traditions, the Sun Dance is probably the easiest one to misinterpret. Many white people think of it as a rite of passage into adulthood or just a test of courage. But that isn't right.
The Sun Dance is prayer and sacrifice. No one is forced to take part; you only do it if you feel it fulfills a dream or a vision.
It isn't quite as grueling as it used to be, but it still demands a lot from those who dance it. Even today, a person can pass out from a lack of food or water. You can get so dehydrated from blowing that eagle bone whistle that your throat dries up like a massive, parched riverbed. You might go temporarily blind from staring into the Sun, seeing nothing but glowing white spirals. The pain in your flesh, right there in the chest where the eagle claw is set, can become so intense that there comes a moment where you don't even notice it anymore. In those moments, when the dancer loses consciousness, when the Sun swirls in their mind and all strength leaves their body, that's when the visions come—visions of becoming a shaman, visions of the future.
The insights gained from paying this price are considered far greater than those one finds just wandering around a hilltop looking for them; they are truly wakan – sacred. One part of it makes me feel pretty pathetic. Right here in the city, there are hundreds of American families who are desperate to keep our old ways alive, but we’re boxed in on all sides by white farmers and cactus growers 😁. The only spot left where we can actually hold our Sun Dance is this old pasture where the local cowboys used to run their rodeos. For them, it’s not good enough anymore—they’ve moved on to build something shiny and new, leaving us to take over the worn-out, leftover field. The paint is peeling off the old bleachers, everything is a bit ragged, but they’re sturdy enough to sit on. You can still make out the faded lettering: “Drink Pepsi,” “Stop by your local livestock dealer.”
They act like we aren't even here!
I hope some other tribes have better luck; they aren't hemmed in by barbed wire. They can perform their ceremonies out in the open prairie or whatever is left of it, but regardless, we’re going to have a beautiful Sun Dance right here. We’ll do everything the right way, following the sacred traditions of our ancestors and doing exactly what our parents taught us—as best as we can in these times and in this place.
We want to be understood and observed, but not just with the eyes. Now is the actual time to talk about how we celebrated the Sun Dance back in the day, so you can grasp it with your whole spirit in its full, terrifying magnitude.
White people get stressed out just hearing about this stuff. But the idea of enduring pain so that others might live shouldn't be seen as anything strange. Don't you people in your churches pray to someone who was “pierced,” nailed to a cross for the sake of his people? No American has ever called a white person uncivilized because of their faith, nor have we ever told them they couldn't pray to whoever or whatever they wanted.
The real difference between white folks and us is that you believe in the redemptive power of suffering only if that suffering happened two thousand years ago. We believe it’s up to each of us to help one another, even through physical pain. For us, pain isn't some abstract concept; it’s very real. We don't dump that kind of burden onto our god, nor do we ask to stand face-to-face with a holy spirit. During a fast on top of a hill or while our flesh is being torn, we experience a sudden flash of insight—we draw close to the inner essence of the great Manitou. You can't get an insight like that for cheap, and we don't want angels or priests doing the heavy lifting for us just to pass it down "second hand."
Even talking about this gives me a bit of an uneasy feeling. We used to barely even speak about it among ourselves. It only came up during special gatherings when there were twelve of us old, wise men present, and even then, only when we were absolutely certain every word was right.
I’ve talked a lot about the pain of the Sun Dance, and a little about its joys. We Sioux Nation aren't a simple people; we’re incredibly complicated. We always look at things from different angles. To us, there is pain in joy and joy in pain, just like the clown is simultaneously a funny man and a tragic figure. It’s all part of the same thing—nature, which isn't sad or happy, it just is..
That’s why, in the old days, the Sun Dance wasn't just a sacrificial ceremony; it was a joyful time when the berries were ripening, the grasses were tall, and game was plentiful—the perfect time to catch up with old friends.
There’s this one specific thread where I’d really love to see some posts from a few of you guys...
Like, say, Edward Patel81, Norec, Quote: Solaris, Wat, Jack Harris3, IL (if you're reading this—and please, no clowns, I'm begging you), Witch, Snake, electricstag74, John Walker74, Shady, Simone, parsifal, Baphomet, magic, illegale, aganor 😠 , or even Dragi... honestly, who am I even going to list? There are too many of you. 😉
Green frog skins—that’s what I call dollar bills. Honestly, we Americans differ from you folks more than anything else when it comes to how we view money. My grandparents grew up in a world where money just wasn't a thing.
Not long before the battle at Little Bighorn, those soldiers in blue uniforms had just been paid. Their pockets were practically bursting with green paper, but they didn't get a single chance to actually spend it. I wonder, what were their last thoughts as an American arrow or bullet found them? I imagine they were mourning all that cash they lost before they could even enjoy it—money that was now being scooped up by hordes of foolish savages with their dirty hands. That probably hurt a lot more than an arrow between the ribs. A massive, chaotic mess, mixed with the screams of thousands of masterless, wounded horses, covered the battlefield in a thick cloud of dust, where the soldiers' green frog skins fluttered through the air like snowflakes in a blizzard.
So, what did the Americans do with the money?
They gave it to the kids, who used that ridiculous, colorful paper to fold little buffalo, horses, and tipis.
You know those adventure books and history texts? They talk about some soldier who supposedly survived the fight. The authors claim he ended up taking his own life just to escape the terrifying torture of the Sioux Nation. But that’s a load of rubbish! He wasn't arrested; he just slowly lost his mind, and some women watched from a distance as he took himself out.
Can you see him? There he is, hunched over in a ditch, watching everything unfold. He sees the children tearing up the money, watches the women using his dollar bills to light fires made of buffalo dung, and sees men using rolled-up bills to catch fire for their pipes. But most of the bills are just dancing in the wind across the camp. Our soldier watches all this and—surprise, surprise—he snaps. He clutches his head and screams, "Dammit, almighty Jesus Christ, look at these stupid, dull, red-skinned sons of bitches burning money all over the prairie!" He stares at it for so long that he finally can't take it anymore and shuts his brain down with a Colt. In a movie, it would be this grand, sweeping scene, but you'd need a bit of American dark humor to really get the punchline.
Green frog skins—the whole struggle revolved around them. Gold in the Black Hills and gold under every single bush. Every day, you see farmers riding across the prairie. They have sacks of grain hanging from their saddles, and the second they spot a prairie dog hole, they toss a handful of wheat inside, much like a sweet old lady feeding pigeons in one of your city parks. The only difference is that the wheat for the prairie dogs is laced with strychnine. What happens to a prairie dog after eating that isn't exactly pretty to watch. Prairie dogs get poisoned because they eat the grass. A thousand prairie dogs eat as much grass in a year as a single cow does. So, if one rancher kills enough of them, he can keep more cows and make a little extra profit. When a rancher looks at a prairie dog, all he really sees is a little scrap of frog skin fluttering in his hands.
To a white man, every straw and every spring comes with a price tag attached. That’s why everything feels so broken; just look around. Bobcats and coyotes that used to live off the prairie dogs now have to hunt stray sheep or injured calves. And then the rancher calls in the county health officials to come kill off the animals. The official shoots a few rabbits and sets them out as bait. Inside the dead rabbit is a wooden stick coated in cyanide; the moment a coyote bites into it, the cyanide explodes in its mouth. The official knows he has to be careful, so he marks every trap with signs saying DANGER! EXPLOSIVE! POISON! It’s just a shame our dogs can’t read, and neither can some of our kids.
And bit by bit, the prairie becomes a wasteland—no more prairie dogs, badgers, foxes, or coyotes. The big birds of prey lived off the prairie dogs, too. Nowadays, you'll rarely see an eagle. The Bald Eagle is the symbol of this country. It’s right there on your money, but your money is what’s killing it. When a nation starts destroying its own symbol, it’s probably not on the right track.
We Sioux have a name for the white man. We call him *wasicun*: the one who scrapes the cream, the cream-collector. It’s a fitting name, since you've scooped up all the cream of this land. But it doesn't seem to suit you. Right now, your race doesn't exactly look healthy—obesity everywhere you look, and nothing but dissatisfied faces. White Americans are raised like factory geese—turned into consumers, into eaters, rather than human beings. Once they stop consuming and buying, this world of frog skins has no use for them. They’ve become the frogs themselves. It's like some child happily torturing an animal, shoving a cigar in its mouth, and they just have to keep pulling and pulling until it pops. Scraping up the cream is a nasty business for the one doing the scraping. It’s especially hard for Americans who are forced to live in this world of frog skins—a world they didn't create and one where they see absolutely no point.
You’re an artist, Richard (my co-author on this project, along with >). That’s really why we get along so well. Artists are basically the dreamers of the white man's world. People call them visionaries living in the clouds, flighty types who can't hold onto a buck, or folks who just refuse to face "reality." They say the exact same thing about us Americans. I mean, how the hell would a bunch of frog-skinned bureaucrats know what reality actually is? There's a world where you paint a picture inside your mind—a picture that shows things differently than what your eyes are seeing—and that's the world where my visions come from. And let me tell you: *that* is the real world, not this green-frog-skin version. This whole thing is just one long, terrible nightmare, a modern-day horror show fueled by exhaust fumes.
Because we refuse to abandon our reality to step into their little frog-skin illusion, they label us fools, lazy, mindless, immature, or abrasive. Honestly, I take being called abrasive as a compliment, and you should too. It’s actually a good thing that our reality doesn't look like theirs. I remember this one white guy watching my grandfather's vest with this skeptical look on his face. It was this beautiful black velvet vest with buttons made from actual ten-dollar gold coins. The guy couldn't wrap his head around it; he kept muttering, "Only a crazy Indian would think that's smart—using real money as buttons when you don't even have a dime left to your name." But my grandfather wasn't crazy at all; he understood the value of money just fine. Money is meant to bring joy. For him, the joy came from sewing a few gold coins with an American profile on them onto a vest. Makes sense, right?
I know this guy, an educated American who moved back to the reservation after spending years working in a big city like Chicago. He used his savings to open up a little cafe and a gas station. All day long, cars would roll up. "Hey, Uncle, I'm tapped out. I can't pay you right now, but you're loaded, so you'll cover me..." And the same thing happened in the cafe: "Come on, Uncle, just give me a sandwich. Don't worry about writing a receipt for your cousin..."
I’ve come up with a new proverb: Americans hunt visions, while white men hunt dollars. We are damn terrible candidates for becoming capitalists. We could try to follow that path if we wanted to, but then we wouldn't be Americans anymore. We’d just be regular citizens with slightly darker skin. That’s too high a price to pay, my friend—simply too high. We make lousy farmers, too, because deep down, we believe that the soil, the water, the air, and everything beneath the surface of the Earth cannot be the private property of one single person. Those things belong to everyone. If people want to survive, they need to get back to this American way of thinking as soon as possible; the sooner, the better, because there isn't much time left to sit around and debate it.
Anthropologists always claim we still have too much of the old bison hunter in us. You either share your food or you share your wealth, or the tribe dies. Back then, that was the rule. Today, when you try to help a struggling relative, people say "No! No! No!" In fact, that's practically encouraged now. I tell those anthropologists, "You've got frog-skin brains." If we were truly the filthy savages you claim we are, we would have eaten you the moment you stepped foot on this turtle island. At least then I'd finally have some peace and quiet. That usually shuts them up for a while. They point fingers at us whenever we have our giveaway festivals. They want to tell us that poor people shouldn't be able to afford generosity. But we hold fast to our tradition, our gift-giving culture that keeps us connected to who we are. Every major milestone—birth, death, joy, sorrow—can be a reason for a giveaway. We don't hoard sudden wealth from an inheritance. It’s better to distribute a dead person's estate. That way, they stay alive in the memories of others forever.
You guys write "In God We Trust" on your currency. I’m glad you left the Great Spirit out of it. The only reason you invoke your God is to protect your businesses. I wanted to show you that it’s that green skin that divides us. But even a medicine man like me needs a little cash sometimes, because you force me to live in your world where I can't get by without money. It means I have to split myself in two, living in two different worlds at once. I don't want to, but I don't have any choice in the matter.
Today they’re playing around with the Sun's holy fire while trying to manufacture atomic bombs. At the end of the day, they’ll only succeed at one thing: blowing their own heads off. There might be a way to avoid that if they actually bothered to learn from us, but they probably still think we're just uneducated, unruly kids who don't know how to listen.
They took the entire Sioux Nation and crammed them into a reservation, they stripped away our way of life our reliance on the buffalo, the pipe, and the knife, they laid our children in cribs and tore the very skin from our bodies. They stole our language and forced English into our children's mouths and those old teepees we loved so much are being used now just for their shows. And the necklaces my mother used to make with beads blessed by God, are made of cheap plastic today imported all the way from Japan. Even though they changed our ancient ways, they can never change our hearts or our spirit, so even when I wear a shirt, a tie, and suspenders looking like some stout American, I won't forget the pipe or the sacred ways because in my heart, I'll always be an Indian.
I’ve spent enough time in the saddle to know when someone has absolutely no business being near a horse. This guy? He had his legs locked stiff toward the ground, and little things sticking out from his boots that looked just like windmill blades. I don't think I've ever seen one human being covered in quite that much hair. His entire face was buried under a thicket of it that stretched all the way down to his chest—maybe even lower—but for some reason, his head was completely bare right where the hair should have been. Since the hair was this light sandy brown, the whole creature looked like a living, breathing rug. He had these eyes, too, like a dead owl’s, a washed-out shade of blue-green. He was chewing on something that looked like a smoking candy cane, though I realized later it was just a cigar. The man clearly wanted a double dose of pleasure because he was working tobacco in his teeth at the exact same time. Every few minutes, he’d pull the cigar from his mouth just to spit a long stream of brown saliva at us with a scowl. Honestly, it baffled me how anyone could eat something so foul you can barely swallow it. This strange little human was sporting a ridiculous hat, too—a weird hybrid of a cooking pot and a chimney pipe. Underneath that, draped over the poor horse's back, was a heavy slab of leather hanging down both sides. Right where the legs split, the leather formed this sort of horn shape. I actually thought the horn was there to hold his manhood in place! It was easily the strangest saddle I've ever laid eyes on. His horse had leather straps wrapped around its head and a bit of iron in its mouth; every time the animal flicked its tongue, I could hear the metal scraping. To top it off, this funny man was wearing leather trousers and had two odd hammers hanging off his hips, which I found out later are called Colts.
Then he started making these wild noises. He was talking, but we couldn't make heads or tails of it because he was speaking English. He kept pointing at my father's beaded moccasins and waving around something that looked like dried green toad skin. He was trying to strike a deal, but my father wasn't having any of it. There were four large gold nuggets sewn right into the moccasins, and I'm pretty sure this man caught the scent of them. He was the very first white man I had ever encountered...
I still remember that trip and that vision, tiny as a grain of rice...
Way out past the horizon ahead of us, a storm was starting to brew. A warm wind began whipping around us, kicking up yellow sand and twisting it into the strangest shapes you could possibly imagine. Even as a kid, I loved watching those weird patterns in nature—not just looking at them, mind you, but really surrendering to their magic, trying to understand their deep, silent language. Long, petrified tree roots, colorful veins running through rocks, the way sunlight catches a drop of oil on water, or those dancing bubbles in boiling water... all of that left such a huge mark on me. Fire, water, smoke, clouds, dust, and especially those little specks of color I’d see whenever I closed my eyes.
Cloud towers rose majestically over the plateau, like a reflection of everything happening on the ground between us, constantly shifting shape—one second they looked like a dog, then a tree, then a bird, then a rock. I found myself wondering what it would look like if I could walk on my head, or if my eyes were oriented differently. I got so lost in it that I completely lost track of time. As always, my little pup was right there with us. It might be a stretch to call him a "friend"—he was more of a companion! Usually, he’s pretty mischievous, but this time it felt like even he was touched by the magic in the air. He wasn't his usual self, darting left and right, chasing his tail, or bounding ahead and behind us. The butterflies that were everywhere this time of year didn't even interest him; he wasn't jumping around with a wagging tail like he usually does. Instead, he looked like an old pilgrim who, despite being totally unfazed, knew exactly where the path was leading him. Suddenly, the image in my mind went haywire. I heard this noise in my ears—or maybe it was inside my head—this short, indescribable sound, almost like that buzzing sensation you get when you're drifting from being awake into a dream. *Brrruzzz–bzzz-pss.*
Even though I was looking straight ahead, I saw myself with colorful braids in my hair, just like our tribal warriors used to wear. I wasn't a child anymore; I was in some strange tent, my fingers tracing something odd while I stared at a peculiar rock filled with moving images... They weren't just any pictures, though. It was as if they were flowing through the stone, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. When I moved my head back and forth, the images shifted along with me, regardless of their own rhythm. Then, suddenly, I realized I could look into the depths. It was bizarre—the images deeper down looked completely different from the ones on the surface. Deeper and deeper... and suddenly, within the stone, I saw myself, my father, and our dog marching through a prairie toward a rider who hadn't been there a moment before. I saw it from a bird's-eye view, yet at the same time, I could see from my own body, looking toward all four corners of the world at once. He was getting closer, and I finally mustered the strength to look him in the eye...
James Cruz6 said:I still remember being just a little kid, following my dad out through the brush... we’d leave the tents and my mom behind, where she’d be busy gathering whatever the earth was offering that day.
Whenever I was wandering through the woods with my old man, I’d find myself drifting off, eyes half-closed, just watching the clouds lazily stretching out across that massive blue sky above us, silently dragging their own shadows over the hills and forests. It always floored me—this total, overwhelming sense of harmony, where the way the clouds danced perfectly matched the birds singing over the nearby creeks, the crunch of pebbles under my boots, and even that tiny hum in your ears that seems to grow until it fills up the whole world when everything else goes quiet.
Just listen to the air. You can hear it, feel it, smell it, even taste it. Woniya wakan—that sacred breath that renews everything it touches. Woniya, woniya wakan—it’s spirit, life, breath, renewal, all of it wrapped into one. Woniya[/]—we sit together, not touching, but there’s something right there: we feel it between us, sensing that presence. It’s the perfect moment to just sit and reflect on nature, or talk about it. Talk to the trees, the rivers, the lakes, and the winds as if they were your own kin.
My dad wasn't much of a talker. Most of the time, he’d just keep his mouth shut and offer a little smile instead. I have such clear memories of him rubbing my head during our breaks, telling me he loved me in a hundred different ways without needing many words, and then we’d just walk for hours on end in complete silence. He never went to school, never learned to read or write, but you could learn an entire lifetime of wisdom just by watching him move. He taught me how to ride and how to settle a wild horse—that "unpredictable" beast. When he was teaching me, he’d do it this way: I’d observe him closely first, and then he’d make this hand gesture that basically meant, "Your turn! Go for it!" I was a quick study, though, so I’d often end up being faster than him. I remember once, during my very first ride, the horse reared up on its hind legs. I hit the ground pretty hard, shaking the dirt right out of my clothes. "You're gonna kill yourself, little girl," he said. That was one of those rare moments he actually gave me a warning. That's why it sticks with me so clearly.
My mother was Sally Red Blanket. She was a beautiful woman, with a lovely face and long, curly hair. She had incredibly steady hands and loved making these intricate embroideries using tiny beads that are almost impossible to find these days. Later on, as I grew up, I noticed that the price people paid for her work would jump whenever a trader took a closer look through a magnifying glass. She passed away when I was seventeen.
Christian! Honestly, I can’t bridge the gap between your words and the actual thoughts of our brother Jesus, whose name you carry so proudly. My friends and family here really value the core tenets of Christian, Buddhist, Islamic, Jewish, vegetarian, consumerist, rationalist, and even Masonic thought—but while a lot of other religions try to force their way in with a monopoly on the truth, ours suggests that every person's heart follows its own unique path.
It’s the same deal with our hearts here on this forum; one person thinks this, another thinks that, but goodness me, aren't we all supposed to be driven by heart?
I won't get too bogged down in your diplomatic, historical diagnosis regarding the meeting of the white and red man or that whole "fire water" business this time. Let's move on! For now, I'll just say this:
Just because you quote Native American lore like a child doesn't mean you actually understand them. Quoting something—anything, really—just means you've repeated words someone else wrote under certain conditions and with certain perspectives. And...
well, *vide non est* is probably better.
Besides, from what I can tell, you aren't exactly a kid anymore! You're far from a child, both outwardly and inwardly. Though, maybe you haven't even received an adult name yet? A leader with a broken heart? 😢
Idolatry?
Do you even see these people?
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Do you have any clue what’s actually going through them? What’s happening inside them and all around them?
Are they even thinking about what they're going to buy for the winter solstice? Will they head over to the Native American version of Lourdes to buy a statue of the White Buffalo Calf Lady made out of a hundred or two shiny little pebbles? Will they spend their time reading a Catholic pamphlet, some niche newsletter, or perhaps the Journal of Foreign Affairs?
Man, you clearly don't have a clue about the concept.
*
There's a saying from our Cheyenne brothers:
A nation cannot be defeated as long as the hearts of its women remain strong. Once that happens, it's over—no matter how brave the warriors are or how powerful their weapons might be.
Uncle Sugar and Solaris, thanks for the support. 🙂
Look, it isn't my goal to declare any Native American belief as the absolute truth that lights up everything around it; nor do I want to call a Christian a moron just because they naively believe a bad price, and I certainly don't want to fight for my own reputation on this forum... No, those aren't my goals at all...
My only goal is to talk—to tell the stories I've heard from my ancestors and yours. I hope you'll understand if I'm not around as often as usual, and if you find yourselves waiting for my replies until well after sunset—longer than there are fingers on two hands... but hey, the Great Spirit will be with us.
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Ever since my people were forced onto the reservation, we've had to endure hunger. So, you can't threaten me with starvation anymore. Yesterday, I saw children eating grass out of pure desperation; are you planning on taking that away from them, too?
Oh'Kum kha'kit—to the Indian Affairs agent, John D. Miles.
Now, I know I might sound like some kind of ego-maniac giving myself a standing ovation, but appearances can be deceiving. You see...
That text above is actually the first chapter from the book Jason Johnson4: Seeker of which I personally—and admittedly, not very professionally—translated from Chinese.😉
What? 😕Copyright etiquette? 😁 Oh, please, give me a break.
I figured it would serve as a solid intro to a topic I’ve been planning for a while now. My goal is to gradually introduce the customs and worldviews of other civilizations—things that feel foreign to us—while also exploring the life paths of some truly extraordinary people from our hemisphere... among many other things.
But for that to work, you guys—you stubborn types—really need to tilt your heads like a confused puppy when something doesn't click. You have to try reading more than just the literal words; you have to catch all those layers of subtext. What is he *actually* saying, and what does it mean for who he is? Then, connect all of that back to the main theme.
Of course, that’s only if you’re actually interested.
Is that a little clearer now? Come on, do me a favor, and maybe one day we can all dance the dance of spirits alongside the Witches and the prophets. 🙏
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