Mediums of truth

On the spectrum of existence in continuous global turmoil, our inward curiosities are the most telling and fascinating portals to our superpowers

In the arena of prevailing cognitive associations, I came into this world under intense global turmoil, yet within a realm of protection and indescribable isolation on a large, corporate, sharecropping farm in northeast Arkansas. Saigon had just fallen overseas, in Vietnam, yet I was in no immediate danger to the bizarre conflicts of the time.

I would soon learn over the next few decades nearly every family in this country, and theirs, had lost an immediate family member, whether fatally or mentally, to the manufactured crisis of communist containment. Colonial expansion versus indigenous life and preservation of Mother Earth on the global stage for the world to suffer.

A twenty-year systemic execution of creative and worthy life; a permanent trigger in the families and loved ones who suffered a life in the loving cosmos of a Vietnam veteran. The ones who played dead lying face down in the mud and guts of their departed combat buddies so they could come back home, get a job at the lumber yard, keep the grass mowed in accordance with neighboring ordinances, continue a domestic family life, and go on pretending like nothing fucking ever happened over there.

RIP KINGSMAN25.

Imposed senseless human suffering. The absolute and indisputable birth of all rock music. Of any variety or offshoot. Period.

I am half colonizer and half native north american of some, or more likely, a blended variety. The sort of variety who tells their kids to mark the WHITE/CAUCASIAN box on all their school forms, and later on, all government documents. In the dead of winter, in the suffocating humidity of the deep south, constantly being yelled at for not wearing a jacket, my skin tone was light brown soybean dust.

And my hair was blonde.

Forty seven years later, in the environment that has felt most like home to me than any other parcel of dirt on the globe, I began the inward journey of deconstructing. Unknowing, untapped, and unexposed truth locked beneath the surface for nearly half a century.

Discovery disintegrated my past lives, and yet again, I was in no immediate physical danger, but the world around me suffered once again in turmoil, both in my personal cosmos and the very real global stage of senseless violence and continued elimination of human life. Always in turmoil; perhaps the never-ending cycle of life. Discovery ultimately disintegrated the notion I had to seek outwardly the experiences. An outwardly seeking of bliss feels and performs a lot like addiction; always a chase; always a fix.

Always the come down.

I am not the canary in the coal mine. I am not here to warn others of pending and ongoing death in an arena where no one really listens to the music anyway.

I am the dirt.

I didn’t choose New Mexico and the Diné-tah to impose my convalescing, or to express my previous suffering, or my subsequent search for truth.

I was already here.

Stringer