The Eagle flies high, as he carries our words,
Tatanka Oyate, have made their return,
The water is clear, the people can see,
Our prayers have been answered, round this cloth covered tree.
*******
“Good morning Staaaannndiiiiing Roooccck.” Probably the quietest morning I’d ever experienced here, and we were with five kids, though, no low flying helicopter to remind me why I was here. Sure felt like a vacation to me, a little open-fire breakfast, a recount of how many stars we could see without the obtrusion of the blinding dapl lights, and even some camp coffee to kick start our sophomore attempt of escaping unscathed. A little prayer probably wouldn’t hurt either. “Do you guys want to make some prayer ties to hang up before we leave?” Uh, yeah, duh.
We sat around and took a strip of each color cloth: Black for the west, wiyohpeyata, the direction of the Wakinyan Oyate and the water they bring; Red for the north, waziyata, a prayer for the harsh winds that teach us of patience and perseverance; Yellow for the east, wiohiyanpata, the spirits of new beginnings and understanding; White for the south, itokagata, the direction of warmth from the sun who provides us with the life of all things; and then Blue to the sky and Green to the Earth, our ancestors who basically gave us everything we’ve ever known, no big.
Everyone split up on our own missions to where we each wanted to place our Tobacco filled prayers. There was a single section of wooden fence by the mess hall that was already flowing in the wind, can’t do fences though, then there was the trees around the inipi, or the sacred fire, or maybe the most sacred Echo 3 security post, but I had another idea. If I could even find it.
I tried to orient myself, maybe this spot was where the donation tent was, ok, then maybe over here was the asheville yurt, then back a bit and make a right at a tipi, and towards the road a few paces, and, is it? Could it? I’m thinking this might be... Aha, it is, here’s a scrap of rope they left in the tree, and here, it’s a fragment of a plastic bowl I’d found to shovel snow - I had actually found my very first campsite from my earliest days at Standing Rock.
It had just been a summer tent that I set up between layers of blizzard, ah, what fun. I got on my knees, burned some Sage, and held another pinch of Tobacco as I ran the fingers of my other hand through the soil of my mother. I was flooded with emotion, waves of gratitude, such an incredible journey into myself that had begun right here. I shared my heart, my prayers, my experience since I left this place.
I assume that Unci Maka knows my spirit no matter where my body lay, but who knows about these trees and bugs and every other little piece of her? I suspect they can feel my heart, but I often go on about conversation with an assumption that they’re already caught up on my backstory, they could be like, “Who on Earth is this guy?”
Or their interwoven rooting into the only thing real in this world, could have them right there with me, either way, I wanted to share a song with my mom to show her all that I’ve been up to. I left tears in the dirt, and put the shard of plastic bowl under the tree with the tent strap, then I tied my string of prayers to the bigger tree that stood at the front of my campsite, visible from the road for all to see. The water protectors are still here.
We reconvened at the caravan, and our local hosts reappeared to see us off. We all prayed at the water, it’s kinda our thing, and he shared a bit of the history of this land with me. This was a place of peace and fertility, it was the wintering grounds for three tribes that converged into one, every fall. Three camps, but one heart, and regardless of their quarrels throughout the year, they set them aside and became a community once again.
The Cannonball river provided life to the land, Timpsilas and wild Potatoes, a place to plant Corn, Beans and Squash, and as many untainted fish as you could catch. Deer filled the horizon to the east, and Buffalo the hills to the west. Tipis covered the land, drums charged the air with prayer vibrations, and the Wanbli Oyate delivered them skyward. Hundreds and hundreds of Eagles flew overhead, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of spiraling wings as they also partook in the feast. I already knew that this place was special, a magic energy that bred connection, and now as I picture the scene, I am once again humbled by the incredible bounty provided to those who live in a good way.
*******
In a good way? Then what was that about all those quarrels and stuff? See, even in your magic kingdom, people just can’t get along, it’s in our blood to dispute the justice of the peace. Nice try, but I’m sticking to my story, and this story obviously took place post invasion.
Yeah, it was before we poached the Eagles down to a point that they were rare enough to make them a national treasure. Sure, it was before we nearly extinctualized the millions of Buffalo, and took the famous picture of the mountains of skulls that we kept as we discarded the corpses. Ok, so it was before we poisoned the fish and the people and the ground and the water, but that’s just because we were occupied doing all that same stuff back east. No, this was definitely after we landed, which means we came and saw this incredible splendor unfolding before our eyes, and somehow a human being was capable of destroying this obvious gift from God. The Iceberg of Eden.
And now their descendants are trying to finish the job, with a giant black snake, capable of swallowing any drop of life that still lingers. The colonizers saw the connection, they saw the power of prayer, and it terrified them. Enough so, that they would rather destroy everything good in the world, than ever consider sharing it with a people who understood the meaning of life.
It’s easy to think that you wouldn’t have murdered the Eagles, or the Buffalo, or even the indians. That if you had been alive back then, then they would still be alive today. That if you could have stood up to the malevolent forces that put all three on the endangered species list, that you would have. That you would be the type of wild west character that children sing songs about on the school bus. It’s easy to think that you’d be one of the good guys, selflessly sacrificing your own life for the good of another. But somehow it seems way harder to even consider a life of less convenience, even as the effects are endangering not just the indians, but the entirety of life on Earth, including your own descendants, who will look back and imagine that had they been in your shoes, they would have done something to stop the complete annihilation of everything good in the world. They would have at least tried. It’s easy to close your eyes and pretend you’re a good guy, but it’s time to wake up and actually be one.
*******
But wait, how can I be so sure that this mythical winter wonderland wasn’t some orally traditioned hand-me-down from some ancient time of Edenistic abundance? Well, I guess it wasn’t strictly a mouth-to-mouth herstory lesson, there are plenty of accompanying illustrations in the Lakota’s “Winter Count,” the record of past events as chronicled by solar cycle, not google calendar. They retell the story of the tribe from what would be the equivalent of 900 AD, and display a clear schedule of events, such as the arrival of the horse in 1692, the first horse raids in 1706, followed by the first inter-tribal conflict and a gift basket of smallpox blankets. It’s also clear that battles were more like football games, and the honor of winning occurred by counting coup, not clipping hair. Go sports. There’s pictographs of Sun Dances, boarding schools, broken treaties and eclipses, and all-in-all a much more accurate historical record of america than america would ever print in english.
And if you’re still unwilling to acknowledge that the social studies of your broken society could possibly have passed on any misinformation, then there’s another pretty basic proof that establishes the timeline of the establishment - the Lakota didn’t move back here until the seventeenth century when colonization pushed them westward, before that, they lived in a different neighborhood of the same magic garden. America was the beautiful land of the free, now it’s the home of walmart parking lots. Funny enough though, those are one of the very few places you can actually park your RV without paying rent, I dare you to set up a tipi though.
*******
And I’d love to set up a tipi, to help make one with my fam and carry it on my travels, except then I’d have to carry it on my travels. I just got rid of the heaviest thing in my bag, I’m not quite ready to start dragging around a mobile home. I could leave the poles behind, but just the canvas would be enough to break me from walking too far. Daddy Erenbrook scoffed, a small thirteen footer would be easy to carry and could even hang from a tree, though he’d hitchhiked across the country with a big one, poles and all. I told you they were something else alright.
And again it was time to part ways. A possibility of crossing paths in a few weeks, but neither of us really had much of a plan beyond today. Been here before, to a point that it’s tough to even be sad anymore, we’ll see each other soon, I’m sure.
Plus, it’s tough to be sad when part of our entourage pulls out a giant bag of peji from oregon, specifically donated to water protectors, and their intent to distribute is overwhelming. Like, I caught a couple Zs for the road. Nice. And once again I found myself in the truck with Unci, but this time it was across Patrick’s bench seat. We buckled up for whatever was ahead, but then it seemed that in true Standing Rock fashion, it was always something. The bus was broken.
A bolt was missing on the transmorgaphier and the belt was just flopping around as coolant spewed out, not good. We’ll assume that dapl humvees are minutes from invasion, mainly because it makes a better story. So I climbed up on the giant diesel engine, tinkered some tools, but what could I really do?
Hmm... yep, got it. I ran into the treeline and grabbed a wire coat hanger that I’d seen amongst the rubble of our winter’s remains, and wrapped it tight around the part - worked. Oh yeah, we fixed the bus with bona fide Standing Rock debris and made a hasty exodus down highway 1806, deja vu to the fullest, man I love this place. I’ve often heard the sentiment, “I left my heart in Standing Rock,” well I didn’t, that’s where I found mine. Aho.
*******
Next stop, Unci’s place, just for a night to grab some of her gear, and the camp cup that I’m bad about leaving behind. You’d think with only three items in my bag, that I’d be able to manage, but then I wouldn’t have had room for all this pej. In the morning we departed, and through no planning of my own, next thing I know we’re driving through Rosebud reservation, right past the Sun Dance grounds. “Um, I think we should stop here for a bit.”
Harvey was home, surprised to see that I was still around and excited to hear my updates, especially after I passed along a few Zs of some strong medicine. I knew that I was given this to spread healing among the people, and what better way to do that than to hand it off to the most powerful medicine man on my friends list? Plus, it’s gonna be some kush karmic ju-ju, and it was, I’ve been in a pretty solid abundance of the stuff ever since. What a cool freaking adventure.
Finally we were off to our final destination, for now, yet another return as I seemed to be on a backtracking trip through the dakotas, where I was yet again greeted by Smokey, as we pull into Camp White Clay Justice. And as if I thought it would work out any other way, I got my wish after all, I moved into my very own tipi at the edge of camp. Well, me and Unci, we just can’t seem to shake each other, not that we’d want to or anything. Well, maybe sometimes.
I had stayed in a different tipi for the couple of nights I’d been here before, but now someone else lived there. And someone was still somewhat living in my new digs, but they had been gone for over a week. None of this was any kind of concern. As long as I had a place to put my pillow, I was good. No one was gonna show up and kick me out in the middle of the night. It’s not my tipi, what do I care?
And that’s how it had been back at camp, people switched homes more fluidly than our water ever was. If you left and returned, odds were that you had a change of address. There might not even be a tipi where you used to live. There was no ‘mine.’ No ‘property.’ No inherent right of individual permanence in a community of uncertainty. We didn’t even know if tonight was the night that we’d get raided by the army, who cares where you sleep? Except maybe your proximity to the mess hall. Or the compost toilets. I don’t travel with a tent, so I’m grateful for any roof over my head, although a tipi is pretty much just a wall.
It’s super easy to move, especially if you don’t have much stuff to pack. Easy to construct, especially if you’re besties with the crew. Low ecological impact during the manufacturing process, especially with pedal power. Minimal footprint, both in diameter and the amount of time it takes Unci Maka to heal after you’ve gone. Quick rebuilding period before or after a flood or forest fire or coastline erosion or tree falling in the woods. And it’s cheap, if that’s a thing you still worry about. Inexpensive to make, plus it saves a ton down the road.
No need to hire an arborist to kill a tree in order to save your house, just take an hour and move it down the block. No need to spend millions fighting a naturally occurring forest fire, one that is actually healthy for the forest as it jump starts a new growth of food, especially after the extreme draught caused by the rerouting of massive water supplies, just take it down and go on vacation until after the burn. No pumping water out of a flood damaged home, it drains completely on its own. No need to lobby your local officials to import another’s sand just to save your property value, as the shifting tides shift the beach you simply move a couple feet with the rising ocean level. And in a brave new world of iceberg collapse and a submerged florida, it’s gonna make a lot more sense than miami’s biggest municipal expense of pumping polluted water out of the below sea-level sidewalks, which only adds to the emissive melting of mankind.
No more hotel fees wherever you visit, so no more hotels, so more space for activities. No vinyl siding or window prison replacement or homeowner’s insurance or termites or whatever else they’ve come up with to milk every last dime out of your quest to become a grown-up. No need for agriculture if you can just follow the food, and no gas stove because you can build a fire right on the floor. It’s better for the environment, better for your wallet, and better for you. I’m no tipi salesman, I’m really just an enthusiast of a migratory way of life. And I also think that it is absolutely necessary for the permanence of our species, that we forget the concept of permanence altogether.
*******
It’s just a selfish thing really. To build a building that’ll last a hundred years. Why? Will you? To pass on value to your kids, who build their own house to pass on to theirs, who build their own as well. To create a world of empty houses that require tons of maintenance to upkeep from falling down.
So, they’re not even that permanent anyway, we just keep throwing destruction at the world to create the illusion of permanence. But, I paid a lot of money to own this property, so it better last a long long long time. And I can even afford a vacation home that I’ll only use twice a year, but I don’t even go out when I’m there anymore, because the homeless population has gotten completely out of hand.
Those dirty bums are single-handedly destroying my property value, what do I care if they lost their arm fighting a war for my low gas prices? At least I live in a progressive city that started exporting the homeless to warmer climates, wish they could do the same for the Carpenter Bees, Woodpeckers, and most importantly the Termites.
But nope, the only option is poison, but that’s what they get for trying to eat the decaying woods of their evolutionary diet. Yeah, sure, we leveled their forest to subdevelop three-story single family homes, but we’re investing in our future, at least for the next thirty years, so how dare they trespass on our private property? If only they could figure out how to eat contracts. But even the ex-Termite-haters who understand the natural flow of eating house and home, they still fight back against the water that threatens the concrete foundations of civilization.
Oh, you can’t stand the rain? Is this fundamental cycle of renewal that washes away every other creature’s temporary domicile, is it just not working for you? Dam it. It’s not your fault that your neighborhood was built in a flood zone, or that the flood waters keep climbing for some unknown reason, as well as flood insurance premiums, but luckily we can build a levee to keep your tax value from ever receding. And we don’t even have to murder a single species, we just have to interrupt the input of the most vital element of life to an entire ecosystem, while we sink another. Plus, if it ever breaks, no worries, we built it above low-income black neighborhoods with no insurance, certainly that’ll curb their permanence in this world, as the saints go marching in.
But that type of disaster is only natural, and I’d much rather be there than in some tropical territory, an island that would take years to rebuild after the storm set its eye on the next wave of erosion. How many times will we recolonize a sinking ship before we realize that it’s lost at sea? And how long would it take to rebuild the island, if it were still composed of the low-impact infrastructure of the indigenous people who knew better than to build up? I’ve been in a storm that knocked tipis down, sure, it was a little cold, but we had them back up way before the national guard showed up to help.
Of course, there’s big money in rebuilding, we make almost as much from the reconstruction of warzones as we do destroying them. There’s bookoos of buckaroos to be split among the wood-fired framing of america, plus the lumberjacks get to take their hefty clearcut. The steel workers union gets to extract higher profits when we insist on scraping the skies of planetary seizures, it’s not their fault though. And in a world where the economy rules supreme, I guess it does make sense to ensure repeat customers by placing your disposable products directly in the path of totality. We just simply can’t live without this unsustainable skyline of such historic value, how else will we remember the impermanence of the villages we destroyed to make room for thirty starbucks?
But bigger is better is stronger is longer, and the castles of tyranny are just further evidence that the ego of civilization is terrified of its collapse. That’s what it is, it’s that ego talking, that desire of ownership, of property, of leaving a mark on this world, even if it’s only a scar across your mother’s face. But, it’s the way we’re raised, it’s the testament of a successful career of colonization, you’re not a proper adult until you’ve built a name for yourself, a legacy that will outlast your physical being, a place in the history books and a place to keep them, just to prove to your grandchildren that you weren’t a complete failure.
Now, I’m not knocking quality craftsmanship, built to last means that it’ll hold up, houses, cars, heavy machinery and homestead cookstoves, the older the better, because the alternative is the modern convenience of a disposable life. It’s cheaper to buy a new kuerig with a case of single-serve plastics, than to pay to fix last year’s model, so we’ll just toss it in the landfill and add another link to the industrial supply chain. It’s the cost effective solution, which is all that matters, plus you get the latest greatest cell phone with wiretap technology - assembled by inmate number 4321.
No, the solution to a world full of everlasting stuff, is not some space age material that falls apart twice as fast, but somehow still lasts a million years. If you’re going to convince me that we can build permanent structures in a good way, then I’ve got to convince you to forget this ownership schtick.
*******
You built a big fancy house, cool, especially if you used reclaimed materials that didn’t pull living resources from the Earth. If I look to the animal nation, most dwellings don’t seem to dwell very long, but I think seashells count, and they’re built to last. But there’s no deed. Even after months of calcifying a new home, once a creature is ready to move on in a good way, they leave their outgrown apartment free for the taking, it’s the only way they can begin to expand their being.
Then another being snags it up and the circle of realty is a reality. So, as long as you’re living in your family fortress, keep on keeping on, but once you’re done with it, it’s gotta be up for grabs. It would be like a selfish shellfish taking up a new home, but guarding the old shell against a sea of shell-less fish, who must now sink their treasures into the rental racket routine.
We’ve even got a correlation to the indian way, their homes may not be cemented down, but I gotta concrete example that even weaves in some food philosophy. There are tribes who allowed families to lay claim to a specific section of land to which they would steward. They developed relationships to the trees and animals, and it was a faux pas to just barge in without sending a smoke signal first. But after they left for a certain period of time, it was once again up for consideration. What did they need it for? Obviously they’d found somewhere more suited to their tastes. No one owned the land or got upset as new tenants moved in, it was actually welcomed, because a good live-in steward brought vitality to all who lived in the area.
So, if you leave your house, for another home or another world, just leave the door unlocked. Another person could take over upkeep, or some filthy animals could move in, your second-cousin-in-law could even continue the legacy, but local residents only. You can’t lock it away empty as it takes up space, and you definitely can’t rent it out for a myriad of reasons, and if you’re not actively using it, you should want someone to appreciate the beauty of granddad’s handiwork.
You still can’t get hung up on thinking that it’s a forever kinda thing though, not when that fallacy is going to require the sacrifice of another being’s being. Termites eat houses, just know that. It’s one of Unci Maka’s ways of redistributing the wealth. The wood in your walls is meant to decompose back into her soil as it empowers a new generation of life, you have to let it continue along its fated journey.
Trees fall even when we’re not selling them to the highest bidder, but that doesn’t give us the right to murder them first, even if it’s just to stop them from crashing into their murdered kin that skin your home. Floods happen, and the real issue here is the toxic components of today’s construction, or yesterday’s asbestos, not quite as eco-friendly as a Buffalo hide and some Lodge Pine poles floating down the river. I want to navigate a solution for you to hold onto that old farmhouse, but the more I look at it, the more I think we just need more tipis.
Or what about mobile homes? Not cheaped-out gas guzzling RVs, but a quality structure that felt like home no matter where it was. Like a school bus or something. A tiny house that wasn’t always on the road, you’d set it up semi-permanently, and as the liquid Earth beneath you ebbed and flowed, you’d relocate your nest to a more suitable location.
Or each community could have a fleet of these, or a field of tipis, but as you travel between villages, you’d leave ‘yours’ behind, and know that you’d have a new home-away-from-home while someone else would have shelter behind you. It’s like the housing swap page on craigslist, but with the fleet of Standing Rock. Busses, tipis, yurts, tarpees, RVs, tents, and the now actually trending in the mainstream so you could still be a hipster too - tiny homes. Or just make extra medium modular houses that could break down and move, or even expand if you just must have that bonus room.
You would carry your personal belongings with you and reset them up once you arrived. No extra horsepower required to move the house, but it would feel like you had pulled a wizard of oz kinda deal. Or if you insist on using technology to solve the problems brought on by technology, let’s invent a material that lasts one adult lifetime.
“Implastic TM” You get a cool futuristic extruded home, and after thirty years of zero equity, it dissolves its fertilization back to the Earth. You’d take all of your stuff out, maybe move on, maybe set up a new one in the same spot, but once it was abandoned, it wouldn’t be another eyesore littering everyone’s view of the planet. I’m no scientist, I’m hardly even a writer, but I bet the Corn starched recipe is less complicated, than convincing your homeowner’s association to let you not decapitate your family members who live in the front yard.
*******
I’m still on team tipi though, I think the nomadic way of life is the healthiest for the planet, and the conical covering of close proximity to that planet, is the healthiest for us. As the ocean continues to rise, our housing crisis is going to toxify the Earth’s water even further. Way worse than that time our tipis were bulldozed, to save them from a fake flood, so that there’d be enough room for oil in the water.
We need to live in structures that break down in a good way, we need to not have a house full of toxic chemicals and oils and plastics and a bunch of junk to be polluting the up-and-coming sea level. The planet’s about to be changing her makeup, even if it ends up taking fifty years, but even these cookie cutter mini-mansions might last that long, and probably be just dilapidated enough to vinyl side the entire east coast.
We have to drop the ego and admit to ourselves that we screwed our children’s future, we have to start curbing the devastation that they will experience, and reducing the number of generations it will take to recover. The water of the Earth is going to run black, it’s already well on its way, is this really something you want to lie to your kids about as you pretend it’s not real?
And to those without kids who are cheering on this toxic tidal wave, guilt-free gluttony as they have brought no children into this broken world, dead and gone tomorrow so no worries for changing today, shame on you for condemning the bloodline of your entire family tree just because you chose the path of least descendants.
A little too extreme for you? Well, let’s imagine the extremities that are just too far-fetched to ever fit into your fantasy world. We can assume that the well-documented rising temperature trends and rising ocean levels, are at no fault of our own, a purely coincidental natural occurrence that we have no control over, so no guilt to carry as we share the fairy tale of our children’s future. It’s definitely happening though. Slowly for now, but even at that rate, our coastal cities are already submerging.
Our biggest metropolitan area is built on an island, forget a pipeline leak, how much oil and other filth is just gonna float away, once a few more feet of acid rain wash new york downstream? And LA’s toxic vibrations are near the water, and chicago’s on a pretty big lake, and most of our most concentrated pollutants seem to be conveniently built within the next tsunami’s reach. Don’t worry about the people still trying to survive in this drowning pool of colonized chaos, they simply have no chance, but even if you live at the peak of civilization in middle america, once our biggest urban areas and their outskirted industrial landfills and petroleum powered traffic jams are underwater, it’s somehow gonna be far more detrimental than the nuclear meltdowns that we’re actively spewing into our own timeline.
And let’s pretend for a moment, that pipelines don’t already leak millions of gallons of sludge into our water, this is all hypothetical hyperbole anyway, ri