The Feather and The Pipe
The old Indian Chief sat by the fire smoking his pipe …
It was the usual mixture of various herbivore’s
substances used to invoke the Spirt of God.
The old man sat there, cross legged chanting
speaking both “of “ the Gods and “to” the Gods.
“Hem e too to e se tu o et bien” “em u to set en mia tio be”
The smoke rose slowly from the Indian Chief’s pipe, swirling up above his head and the heads of those encircling him. Tiny billowing waves of scented mist climbed upwards towards the top of the teepee, circling slowly at first then beginning its final round up, up around then thru.
“O my camma se tu ohhh, ben yio ti maian ohhh…”
The old Indian Chief rested backwards now,
leaning against the myriad piles and rows of ancient ritual blankets, said to have powers of their own, inherent powers of and in itself that when combined with the numerous entities called upon here, by this old man… well, these powers formed a new entity altogether.
It was a nameless presence joining the new and the old, with the strength of a hundred no a thousand youthful Indian braves, warriors that were assembled before the men in this small tee pee. Assembled to form an entirely new spirit essence.
Climbing higher and higher, growing evermore powerful until finally…
Finally the old Indian Chief would collapse into a silent heap of flesh and blood, Spirit of dust and smoke.
Soon the answers would come. They would come soon from the mouth of the old man himself to his tribal gatherers. They were both young and old, male and female, mother and child, husband and wife, sons and daughters alike.
The future lay before them on trails and plains stretched out for all to see and to join in.
This trail was theirs to take one and all, together yet still alone. Their lives would seek the Spirit’s wisdom of the ages for themselves.
They would seek.
They would find.
They would go.
When Synapses Go Bad 