Christ Has Risen
Wovoka, the guy who came up with the Ghost Dance back in 1890 when the last of the Indians were being beat back into reservations and alcoholism, said that eventually the white man would go down and the forests and prairie and oceans and rivers with him, it would take a while but it would happen, and then the ghosts of tribal ancestors would rise up and float over the wasteland, and here we are today keeping track of the escalating disaster, the impending doom with sophisticated technological instruments and now and then sticking our finger in the dike.
I have no hope, not a shred of it, I live from one disastrous moment to the next and scrawl it down as it goes by and don’t answer the phone on Easter Sunday which seems to be a trigger for people to call me who haven’t called me all year, haven’t called me in decades, and in the case of an aunt, hasn’t talked to me or laid eyes on me since I was nine. “Hi, Johnny Jump-Up!” she says to the message machine. “It’s Aunt Janie-bell! Happy Easter, little guy!”
People buying Hallmark cards by the hundreds of millions, painting hard-boiled eggs that will go rotten in nests of cellophane grass in baskets made by Muslims working 12-hour days for 12¢ an hour in sweat shops and sleeping ten to a room in company shacks – Christ has risen!
We’re all so fucked, and soon there will be nothing left but Paiute ghosts floating in the wind. Go ahead, take a look over your shoulder, see what’s going down. It’s the one thing we all do our part to make happen.