Saturday, May 26, 2018

"Hang In There..."

"Using time, pressure and patience, the universe gradually changes caterpillars into butterflies, sand into pearls, and coal into diamonds. You're being worked on too, so hang in there. Just because something isn't apparent right now, doesn't mean it isn't happening. It's not until the end do you realize, sometimes your biggest blessings were disguised by pain and suffering. They were not placed there to break you, but to make you."
- "The Angel Affect"

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly."
- Richard Bach 

X22 Report, “The Next Crisis Is Not What You Think, It Could Send Shockwaves Around The World”

X22 Report, “The Next Crisis Is Not What You Think, 
It Could Send Shockwaves Around The World”
Jim Sinclair's MineSet: http://www.jsmineset.com

Musical Interlude: Jeff Bjorck, “Desert Cloudburst”

Jeff Bjorck, “Desert Cloudburst”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkEzynnbfXA

"A Look to the Heavens"

“Which is older- the rocks you see on the ground or the light you see from the sky? Usually it’s the rocks that are older, with their origin sediments deposited well before light left any of the stars or nebulas you see in the sky. However, if you can see, through a telescope, a distant galaxy far across the universe- further than Andromeda or spiral galaxy NGC 7331 (inset)- then you are seeing light even more ancient. 
Click image for larger size.
Featured here, the central disk of our Milky Way Galaxy arches over Toadstool hoodoos rock formations in northern Arizona, USA. The unusual Toadstool rock caps are relatively hard sandstone that wind has eroded more slowly than the softer sandstone underneath. The green bands are airglow, light emitted by the stimulated air in Earth's atmosphere. On the lower right is a time-lapse camera set up to capture the sky rotating behind the picturesque foreground scene.”

"To Live..."

"To live, man must hold three things as the supreme and ruling values of his life: Reason - Purpose - Self-esteem. Reason, as his only tool of knowledge - Purpose, as his choice of the happiness which that tool must proceed to achieve - Self-esteem, as his inviolate certainty that his mind is competent to think and his person is worthy of happiness, which means: is worthy of living. These three values imply and require all of man's virtues, and all his virtues pertain to the relation of existence and consciousness: rationality, independence, integrity, honesty, justice, productiveness, pride."
- Ayn Rand

"Memorial Day: A Day to Pause, Think and Remember"

"Memorial Day: 
A Day to Pause, Think and Remember"
by Robert L. Dilenschneider

"Memorial Day is Monday, and most of us have plans for the holiday weekend: enjoying the first taste of summer, entertaining with friends, or just relaxing. This will always be part of what the Memorial Day weekend is all about. The other part, as we all know, is about honoring this country’s fallen heroes. We live in the greatest nation in the world only because time and time again brave men and women have been willing to fight for the freedoms we all too often take for granted.

Memorial Day began as an occasion to honor those who fought and died in the Civil War. Places in both the North and South claim to have originated it, from Macon, Ga., and Richmond, Va., to Boalsburg, Pa., and Carbondale, Ill. But in 1966, Congress and President Lyndon Johnson declared Waterloo, N.Y., the birthplace of Memorial Day. There, a ceremony on May 5, 1866, honored local Civil War veterans. Businesses closed and residents flew flags at half-staff. Supporters of Waterloo’s claim say observances in other places were informal, not community-wide or one-time events.

After World War I the day was expanded to honor the service people of all American wars. In 1971 Memorial Day was declared a national holiday by an act of Congress, though it is still often called Decoration Day.

Thus, the men and women we honor this Memorial Day are all those who have served this nation from its founding 242 years ago- since the Revolutionary War, we have lost 1,010,485 men and women in combat- as well as all those who defend us now. Permit us to wish you a great weekend. But let us never forget the courageous men and women who have served and sacrificed so much in past wars so we could enjoy this holiday, just as we honor those who stand duty today to keep us safe."
“For the Fallen”

“Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labor of the day-time;
They sleep beyond their country’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.”

- Laurence Binyon,
“For the Fallen” (adapted)
We honor their sacrifice and service.

“Requiescant in Pace”

“Requiescant in Pace”
by Brian Maher

"It is Memorial Day weekend, when we pause to honor the nation’s war dead. Most Americans will not, of course. It is merely a chance to lie flat on a beach… to munch frankfurters… to dream the dreams of approaching summer. We’ll be joining them of course.

We will not be planting tiny American flags atop forgotten graves this weekend. We will not be bugling taps. It is unlikely we will thank a veteran for his service - not because we lack respect - but because we scarcely know any.

But we remember how we were brought up short one day, strolling the American military cemetery above Omaha Beach. The rows and rows and rows of bleach-white crosses - and an occasional Star of David - seeming to stretch from horizon to horizon. A haunting poem from the First World War came to us as we wandered among the dead… and listened for their ghostly counsel. “In Flanders Fields,” the poem was called. From which:

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields."

The American military cemetery above Omaha Beach

What fetched us was not so much the gravity of those distant events - but the soul-numbing waste of it all. What great things may have awaited that 21-year-old second lieutenant if a German bullet hadn’t cut him down on June 6, 1944? What did life have in store for that sergeant of the 2nd Ranger Battalion, who never made it up Pointe du Hoc? What about this young paratrooper of the 101st Airborne Division, whose bones lie beneath a shady tree? What might he have amounted to? Maybe a lot. Maybe nothing at all. But he had a life to live. And every right to live it.

Let us also not neglect the pulverized and unidentified dead, known only to their creator.


What about the futures they never had? "For of all sad words of tongue or pen,” lamented poet John Greenleaf Whittier, “the saddest are these: “It might have been.” And so before we embark on our Memorial Day weekend merriments. Let us lower our heads in mournful reflection of America’s martial departed… and of what might have been.

Requiescant in pace.

Below, we bring you an inspirational tale of heroism. Even though the fellow described served under the Tricolor of France, his valorous deeds likely saved countless American lives during the Normandy campaign. His own legendary life is worth remembering this weekend. Read on."
"Memorializing a Real-life James Bond"
By Brian Maher

"It was April 1945 and the German SS had just captured French agent Count Robert de La Rochefoucauld... The Gallic saboteur was coming off another mission of derring-do when the hated German occupiers collared him.

Monsieur Rochefoucauld was a man used to seeing off long odds. But Lady Fortune turns a cold cheek to every man eventually. Nazi justice would be swift, and it would be severe. At least he would die a proud man. He had sold himself dearly - he left a path of lifeless Germans behind him - and covered his name in glory.

German soldiers seized the condemned by the scruff and hauled him into a nearby field. They fell in, line abreast... readied their weapons... and awaited the order. Suddenly a belch of machine gun fire tore the early spring air. Then silence. But something was wrong. Cosmically wrong. The Frenchman was... alive. No, alive doesn’t describe it. He was unscratched. What happened? How could they miss from point blank range?

The Frenchman was now living a moment of pure adrenaline, a moment beyond description. Then suddenly his disbelieving eyes solved the mystery. The bullets weren’t for him. Rochefoucauld’s French Resistance confreres saw the proceedings and opened up on the SS men just in time. The timing was a thing of Hollywood - only more so.

Survival trumps justice, so the Germans wheeled to their immediate source of trouble. They would deal with their prisoner later. Streams of molten 7.92 millimeter arced their way downrange. That’s when Rochefoucauld seized his chance… His heart pounding, the galloping frog dashed out of sight - unexecuted, unbroken and unbowed. Rochefoucauld had cheated death… again.

Count Robert de La Rochefoucauld was born in 1923 to a family of Paris aristocrats. They could trace their roots to the time of Charlemagne. One of his ancestors, Francois de La Rochefoucauld, often drank with Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin while they were in France.

Before the war Robert attended Europe’s most elite schools. High society was his natural habitat. The young Count knew this one and that one, went to all the parties - as one would expect from a young aristo. Life he had by its tail. And believe it or no, the young man actually met Herr Hitler in 1938. The German chancellor even pinched the young 15-year old’s cheek. But that was before Hitler was Hitler. And before the Germans invaded France two years later.

The Germans settled into the rough business of occupation after their lightning victory in June 1940. Rochefoucauld's father was dragged off. Other relatives were even less fortunate. But young Robert managed to slip through the dragnet. He tried to piece together a resistance group. But he soon learned that his efforts attracted the Gestapo’s worried interest. It was time to quit Paris. He’d take his chances in the French countryside…

Rochefoucauld shed his aristocratic title, assumed a false name and went as a commoner. It was life at the other end for this former bon vivant. He soon fell in with two downed British pilots who needed out of occupied France. The hatchling guerilla volunteered his assistance. So the three struck out for Spain, the Germans hot behind them. They somehow made it through the German patrols. But when the unlikely trio crossed into Spain, their luck drained. They were immediately arrested. Spain was technically neutral - but still fascist. And international law demanded neutral countries intern foreign combatants. The war was over for the young aristocrat, before it even started.

Rochefoucauld spent two impossible months holed up in Spain's notorious Miranda de Ebro prison. It was known during the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s for its ghastly conditions. It was here, here in this pit, that the young Frenchman nursed his appetite for revenge. What those Nazis did to his country... what they did to his family…

Then one happy day a fellow from the British Special Operations Executive (SOE) - also known by the sterlingly British “Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare” - showed up to spring the pilots. But when the airmen told the SOE officer about their comrade who saw them out of France, the Brit also worked a get-out-of-jail card for Rochefoucauld. The Frenchman was off to England, where he’d soon acquire the black arts of ungentlemanly warfare.

Rochefoucauld was immediately assigned to SOE’s espionage section. The Count was schooled in skydiving, sabotage, safecracking, weapons tactics and self-defense. By June 1943 he was cutting wild capers in his native France, and visiting unshirted hell on its Nazi occupiers.

Rochefoucauld took up with the local Resistance and went straight to work. He cut his teeth dynamiting train tracks and an industrial power station. But cruel fate moved against him. A collaborator turned coat and delivered Rochefoucauld to the Nazis. He was badly used by the Gestapo, and sentenced to death as a spy… his days of sabotage over.

The inevitable day came. His captors bound his hands and packed him onto a truck. As the truck sped towards his personal Golgotha, Rochefoucauld considered his options. Options? The young man was flanked by guards with submachine guns. And his hands were bound. An absurd idea suddenly jumped into consciousness. What if I… He’d only have one chance at it.

The bound captive suddenly bolted to his feet and dashed for the stern of the speeding truck. The fall should have broken an ankle, a leg, or cracked his skull. But nothing. The guards weren’t about to let him go so easily, of course. Bullets screeched by the former prisoner as he dashed for the tree line, his hands still bound. By some miracle he escaped through the hail and evaded his pursuers.

If you’re starting to think this was a man with unique talents for luck, you might be right. Rochefoucauld proceeded to skirt enemy patrols, and snaked his way back to the city. Darting through the streets he suddenly found himself in front of the local Gestapo headquarters - the same Gestapo that was trying to kill him. Tugging on fate’s cape, this daredevil walked right up and stole a Nazi limousine parked in front. That is correct. He stole it.

The Germans were toweringly unamused. They got his scent right away and Rochefoucauld led the Nazis on a high-speed chase through town. At one point he crashed through an SS roadblock. His New York taxicab driving bought him time before he ultimately ditched the car. He then took to his heels, losing his pursuers in a minotaur’s maze of city streets. Count Robert de La Rochefoucauld defied death yet again.

Rochefoucauld eventually made it to the French coast. He then boarded a fishing boat that rendezvoused with a British submarine in the English Channel. But the gods weren’t through testing this hero’s mettle… Shortly after Rochefoucauld boarded the sub, a German destroyer sniffed it out.  The “swish-swish” of the destroyer’s engines attained a fiendish pitch as the hunter closed in. What followed Rochefoucauld described as his worst experience of the war. “I’d never been so scared in my life,” he would later say.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Place a garbage can over your head and have a madman proceed against you with a sledgehammer. That may give a faint suggestion of the experience (we highly recommend the German submarine movie "Das Boot"). But the sub survived the attack. After three impossible days at sea Rochefoucauld was back in England. And glad of it. “We were invited to the best houses,” he’d later say. “Girls fell into our arms.” No doubt they did.

Rochefoucauld's next mission took place in May 1944 - a month before D-Day. And this one was one for the books. His job was to destroy the largest ammunition factory in France, near Bordeaux. All by his lonesome. The place was a fortress, airtight with security, strewn with guards. And he’d somehow have to smuggle 90 pounds of explosives past it all.

But how? Then the Count had another sunburst of inspiration… He might blend in as a factory worker. But how would he get 90 pounds of dynamite in through security? Then it came to him. He’d hide it inside hollowed-out loaves of bread. The French and their bread, after all. Who’d suspect? It took him four days to smuggle it all in... loaf by loaf. Undetected, he placed the dynamite around the factory’s structural supports and set the timers. Then he sauntered out, scaled a wall and made off on a bicycle. The explosion could be heard ten miles away. Rochefoucauld didn't even bother looking back. He just single-handedly destroyed the Germans’ largest ammunition in factory in France. And in time for D-Day.

But his satisfaction was short-lived. He was off to Bordeaux to meet a contact who’d get him back to England. But he chanced upon a German roadblock. The winsome young man told them he was heading for a romantic assignation. They didn’t believe him. The French aristocrat was taken prisoner again.

Torture is an insufficient description for the Gestapo’s punishment if they discovered he was responsible for the factory bombing. So Rochefoucauld nearly resorted to the final solution - downing the cyanide pill he kept hidden in his shoe. He’d escaped from German captivity once before. But this was a Fort Knox. And he was locked in a dungeon. This seemed the end of the tether for Count Robert de La Rochefoucauld.

At one point a guard entered his cell, only to find the French saboteur writhing on the ground in an epileptic seizure. When he approached the flailing prisoner, Rochefoucauld whipped out a table leg he’d broken off, and clouted the guard over the head with all the energy at his command. The guard staggered, stunned, then the trained killer snapped his neck like a twig. “Thank Goodness for that pitilessly efficient training,” Rochefoucauld later noted.

But now what? He was still trapped inside this fort, Germans everywhere. Another inspiration came to him. Rochefoucauld donned the guard’s uniform and walked out of the cell. He proceeded to the guardroom. And shot dead two additional guards. Then he walked right out the front door, casual as a Sunday morning stroll. He’d escaped from German hands - for the second time.

Rochefoucauld joined a local contact as he figured his next move. By now the Nazis were out for blood, and swarmed the area. He was trapped. And there would be no escape next time. Then someone else had an idea this time. His host’s sister was a nun. Nuns wear peculiar clothing. So Rochefoucauld slipped into a nun’s habit and started out of town. Sure enough, he made his way past the German patrols and to eventual safety... disguised as a woman of God.

Finally, in April 1945 Rochefoucauld was captured in his final mission, which led to the dramatic escape with which we opened this story. That would be the third time the Germans captured him. And the third time he escaped. As the Count would later say, “I had what I needed more than anything else. Luck.” Better to be lucky than good. But best to be both.

What a war! He carried out many successful missions - including one that had him singlehandedly dynamiting the largest ammo factory in France. The Nazis captured him three times... and he escaped certain death each time. He also survived a savage depth charge attack while trapped in a submarine. The James Bond of film couldn’t hold aces and spades to this royal gent.

After the war Rochefoucauld was recruited by the French secret services. He led commando raids against the Viet Minh during France’s 1950’s war in Vietnam. His retirement into peaceful civilian life left him bored. He ran a banana company in Venezuela. Then he tried his chances in Cameroon. Count Rochefoucauld ultimately returned to service in time for the Suez Campaign of 1956, during which he parachuted into the Sinai. But fighting concluded before he could see action. That was it for military life

In 1966 the weathered aristocrat became mayor of a small French town. It was an office he would hold for 30 years. Time accomplished what the Nazis couldn’t. Count Robert de La Rochefoucauld died on May 8, 2012, aged 88 years. Life is lived not in years, but in moments. And this man packed more moments into 88 years than most could fit into a thousand. Well and truly, a remarkable life."

The Daily "Near You?"

Roswell, Georgia, USA. Thanks for stopping by!

The Poet: Mary Oliver, "One"

"One"

"The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
So many lives, so many fortunes!
Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
before the slug creeps to the feast,
before the pine needles hustle down
under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.

How many, how many, how many
make up a world!
And then I think of that old idea: the singular
and the eternal.
One cup, in which everything is swirled
back to the color of the sea and sky.
Imagine it!

A shining cup, surely!
In the moment in which there is no wind
over your shoulder,
you stare down into it,
and there you are,
your own darling face, your own eyes.
And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
and you know what else!
How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
even your eyes, even your imagination."

~ Mary Oliver

"Everybody's Business..."; "In The Time Of Your Life..."

"The whole world and every human being in it is everybody's business."
- William Saroyan

So...
“In the time of your life, live- so that in good time there shall be no ugliness or death for yourself or for any life your life touches. Seek goodness everywhere, and when it is found, bring it out of its hiding-place and let it be free and unashamed. Place in matter and in flesh the least of the values, for these are things that hold death and must pass away. Discover in all things that which shines and is beyond corruption. Encourage virtue in whatever heart it may have been driven into secrecy and sorrow by the shame and terror of the world. Ignore the obvious, for it is unworthy of the clear eye and the kindly heart. Be the inferior of no man, nor of any man be the superior. Remember that every man is a variation of yourself. No man’s guilt is not yours, nor is any man’s innocence a thing apart. Despise evil and ungodliness, but not men of ungodliness or evil. These, understand. Have no shame in being kindly and gentle… and have no regret. In the time of your life, live- so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it.”
- William Saroyan, ”The Time of Your Life” (1939)

Musical Interlude: Joan Baez, Jeffrey Shurtleff, “Seven Bridges Road” (1969)

Joan Baez, Jeffrey Shurtleff, “Seven Bridges Road” (1969)

"How It Really Is"

"He does not believe who does not live according to his belief."
 - Thomas Fuller
Isn't it curious how so many politicians, these tough-guy-talking wannabe war lords, "big men", "real warriors", "talk the talk" about all the wars they want to start, and how so very, very few actually "walk the walk"? I suppose that's because words are cheap and easy, actions aren't. Really easy to run one's mouth, like the NeoCon trash, so bold and fierce and brave sitting in an office in DC. Curiously, it's always too inconvenient for them or their children to actually go fight a war, but they have no difficulties sending your kid and mine to die in one. As Dwight D. Eisenhower said, “When people speak to you about a preventive war, you tell them to go and fight it. After my experience, I have come to hate war. War settles nothing.” I think sending them to fight the wars they want would be a very good idea...
- CP, Veteran, USMC.
Any questions?

"I Remember..."

"I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more – the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort – to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires – and expires, too soon, too soon – before life itself."
- Joseph Conrad, 1857-1924, English writer, "Youth"

"The Circle"; "The Ghost Dance"

"With us the circle stands for the togetherness of people who sit with one another around a fire, relatives and friends united in peace, while the Pipe passes from hand to hand. Once all the families in the villages were in turn circles within a larger circle, part of the larger hoop of the nation. The nation was only part of the universe, in itself circular… circles within circles, within circles, with no beginning and no end. To us this is beautiful and fitting; symbol and reality at the same time, expressing the harmony of nature and life. Our circle is timeless, flowing; it is new life emerging from death – life winning out over death.”
- John (Fire) Lame Deer
Brule, "Stomp Dance"

"The Ghost Dance"
“The Ghost Dance was an attempt of a group of North American Indian tribes to further separate themselves from the white man and the religious doctrines they were forcing upon the tribal peoples. Among the Sioux and Arapaho, the Ghost Dance was one of the central rituals of a new religious movement that focused on the restoration of the past, as opposed to a salvation in a new future. The movement was active within limited tribes and mirrored other attempts by previous Indians to escape the civilization of the white man. The earlier movements included the Good Message of the Iroquois and the Dreamers of the Columbia River tribes. All of these movements had similar features including a rejection of the white mans civilization, especially alcohol, weapons and technology. In addition, the movements preached unity among tribes, even those that were once enemies and a revival of Indian customs that were threatened by the civilization of European peoples.

The despair and nostalgia associated with the Ghost Dance reflects that period from which the movement evolved. Plains tribes faced losing their freedom and being overtaken of their homes, their beliefs and their existence. The Ghost Dance was a resurrection of the dead, a bringing back of the customs and way of life that the Indians were trying to hold onto.

The prophet who began the movement of the Ghost Dance was Wovoka, a member of the Paiute Tribe. He was descended of a family of prophets and Shamans. Known as a medicine man, it was said that during an eclipse of the sun and while suffering from a high fever, he had a vision which inspired the development of the movement known as the Ghost Dance. The vision embodied the beliefs that inspired the followers of the movement including that the white man would disappear from the Earth after a natural catastrophe and that the Indian dead would return bringing with them the old way of life that would then last forever.

To bring these and the other beliefs into effect, the Indians had to practice the customs of the Ghost Dance movement and to renounce alcohol and farming and end mourning, since the resurrection would be coming soon. The most important practice to ensure the effectiveness of the movement was the dance itself. The dance was unlike other Indian dances with fast steps and loud drumming. The Ghost Dance consisted of slow shuffling movements following the course of the sun. It would be performed for four or five days and was accompanied by singing and chanting, but no drumming or other musical instruments. In addition, both men and women participated in the dance, unlike others in which men were the main dancers, singers and musicians.

The first dance was held by Wovoka around 1889. Word spread quickly and the Ghost Dance was accepted by the Utes, Bannocks and Shoshone tribes. Eventually, the Plains tribes also adopted the Ghost Dance movement and the peaceful message of hope was spreading and uplifting many Indians. While adapting the movement, many tribes added specific customs and rituals to the Dance that reflected their tribes individuality. The Sioux added two specific elements including the use of hypnosis to bring about trances and aid in the communication with the dead, and a ghost shirt. Made of buckskin or cloth, the shirt was said to make the wearer immune to bullets, a weapon of death known initially only to the white man.

A famous Sioux warrior, Sitting Bull, adopted the Ghost Dance into his way of life. He was a respected leader, medicine man and warrior. His following of this movement alarmed the military and Indian Agencies. In 1890, just a few months after presiding at his first Ghost Dance, Sitting Bull was killed. His followers fled and joined the band of Kicking Bear, one of the first to practice with Wovoka. Donning their ghost shirts and with their beliefs firm in their hearts, the followers of the Ghost Dance were rounded up at Wounded Knee creek and killed while resisting arrest. Among those killed were women and children wearing their ghost shirts, which did not stop the bullets of the Indian Agencies or the Military.

The Ghost Dance continued to be danced in more southern tribes, but the end of the movement really came with the deaths at Wounded Knee. The hopes of the Indians also ended at that massacre. Many of Wovokas ideas and concepts were adopted by Peyote cults and can even be found in practice today. Indian tribes did not survive the push of the white man. Broken up and with broken dreams, the tribes were shuffled onto reservations and lost many of their customs and rituals. The Ghost Dance was one of those customs lost, but never forgotten. Resurrected from the past, the Ghost Dance and other tribal beliefs are brought to life everyday in the education of our nation.”
“Native American, Power Drums, Spirit Pride”
"Not authentic or traditional Native American music, but fast paced, heart pounding new age sound. “Apurimac III: Nature- Spirit- Pride” is an album by the German cross-cultural new age band Cusco. All tracks on this album are related to the Native American cultures of North America. The beats, chants, and flute works depict a Native American musical style, though are made more accessible to modern ears through the use of overtly synthesized instrumentation and percussive rhythms. Beautiful art are images of paintings by J.D. Challenger, Frank Howell, and Howard Terpning.”