As for this mountain she’s singing about, listen up: in our lifetime it’s winding down, eroding, been sanded away…today, it’s just another mesa, if a mesa made special, sacred, not in its appearance under any light whether of night or day or else in any other apparency, but only as it’s a landmark spiritual, a placemarker, as it’s said — the site of an emergence, onto the shores of our world. You following. Stay with me. Now, be you chaver or chazer, this here is the harder world, be ye warned, a dimensioned world, textured, heavy-fingered and greedy of palm, it touches all surfaces, strokes: its topography one of pain, of sorrow and suffering, but it’s also another opportunity, after those of their worlds previously squandered — realize the plan or prepare for yet another destruction. All of you with husks in your ears, with shells over your eyes, you’ve been warned. Ignore at your own peril, gringo, Bahana — you White Mensch from Across the Water whose appearance, it’s said, means the end of this world, marks the beginning of the next, whatsoever it be, they hope good and soon.
In the beginning of it All how they, too, had their own void, believe it, space without form, everyone did, each to their own, the same, equal and endless. Then — we appeared…we appear only in order for the world to have appeared to us, and so it follows — dispersion; their Eden already a diaspora: they emerge from the water onto the land to be robbed. Their womenfolk raped. Their legacy up in unproverbial smoke. A noise comes from behind a star: a siren, civilization’s cry, which destroys, decrees future governance; over the mountains, the bleat of the cavalry’s horn — it’s the voice of the God of the Universe, Nature Itself saying to them, go forth: follow each your own star…and then when that star stops, wheresoever it might end or fall, settle there, this is what I’ve decided. And so they make their migrations, four ways to the wind. That’s their myth, no stranger than any other, admit it. They’re the Hopi, the unchosen chosen. Welcome to their world, dwell in peace. Reservations unnecessary, hunt yourself into a quarter, gather, and settle. Pitch your wander. Make yourself at home.
What you should expect: to begin with, the color of this world is yellowed white, its tree the juniper, its bird the owl as wise as age, perched on its winged laurels; its animal the mountain lion that paces starving and droughted, inexorably tracking its prey elusive if not yet extinct through what are called the pasos, which are the four directional arms of the Great Swastika, north, south, east, and west: these the very routes of the Hopi dispersion, their camp to be centered at this, the apex of the bent cross, the dead middle of this peopled line. Here is the seat of the planet’s rotation, the spiritual magnet that once attracted the New Aging rabbis’ sisters and thinhaired, wireglassesed aunts out from Angels, Desert Hot Springs, Arizona’s rocks Bell and Cathedral, Sedona and its outlied environs, and even parts aged further east — here the intersection of the vibrations of the Twins, the Hopi deities of our fallen equator. From here, the middle of the map that is the Swastika, the migration can be mirrored in two directions: there were the Hopi who’d turned right, the clans of the Bear, the Eagle, Fire and Water, Whatever, That One, Why Not, and Sure; while those who’d turned left provide for the reflection of the form: the clans of the Crow, the Bluebird, the Butterfly, What He Said, Without a Doubt, Definitely, Absolutely, You Got It…others still splintering off from the Swastika, to live apart, in inhuman cities and outerboroughs, in godless Developments scattered to the judgment of every scarcity’s wind. This reflection into four arms symbolizes, too, the quadrants of the worlds, those quadrantworlds destroyed — all of us living despite our wander within the meaning of the last square, its intent the greater, the darkest. Cradled in the bosom of the swastika. Confined by the total wall of this cross.
