On my time spent on the Res with Brooks, seeing other worlds,

My life, it seems, is a reckoning with truth. I have always been insulted by those trying to deceive me, and have attempted to see through the lies that have been perpetuated by generations of parents, teachers, politicians, and authority. When I was a little kid, I had problems watching cartoons. I can remember being put off by the impossible things that characters were doing. Talking animals did not appeal to my good sense. Video games didn’t do much for me either. I knew that we didn’t get to push reset, and get extra lives like we did in the games. Truth appears to me to be a transitory concept.. What is true is often times what is profitable, and not actual fact. This is very evident when one considers a certain weedy plant. A plant with many medical and industrial uses. One with an ability to heal individuals, environments, and nations. A plant that is illegal to possess or cultivate. It was once a valued crop, now it is a prison sentence. I make no distinction between industrial and medicinal Cannabis, as both have proven to be valuable to humans in so many ways. Why would any government suppress something that could be of such value to the people that it is supposed to protect? I assume that it has much to do with profit margin. Simple solutions are not usually profitable. More money is produced by the work of chemists in laboratories owned by large petroleum-chemical corporations. Corporations whose leaders must afford lavish accommodations. Leaders who have much clout in government. Why do these corporations produce food, drugs, and drink that are made of addictive, dangerous chemicals? To make money. The corporations have one obligation, and that is to its stockholders. What is pure, simple and good is not important. Profit is of utmost importance. I would assume that this is why so much time and money has been spent by agencies of our government to stop farmers from cultivating their hemp crops. Those in charge want to protect their profits. I doubt that they have our best interest in mind as cigarettes and alcohol are still legal, and they have been proven much more dangerous than cannabis. I am a white guy from Chicagoland. This is an area of the country that has been known historically for its hardworking, blue collar folks. Its also known as a center of conflicts; organized crime and corrupt political officials. This is a place where people love to escape. The cheapest and easiest way that folks know how is by drinking alcohol. My father’s distant family were brewers of beer. They brewed a cheap pilsner beer that became a favorite of laboring people in Chicago and the Midwest. Drive down any street in Chicago, and one will find a tavern with my ancestors’ name on it. Growing up, people would always comment as to how I shared a name with a popular beer. People associated me with drinking, and I drank. I became such a thirsty devil. Seemed I could never get enough of the stuff, despite the negative consequences it was having on my finances, social life and health. I discovered cannabis as medicine, and it changed my life. Using cannabis, I am certain, has saved my life. I doubt I could have ever made it through the difficult withdrawals from alcohol detoxification without marijuana. I know also know several people who have been saved by cannabis. My friend Jerry was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Having worked for the government in nuclear facility, he knew the risks of his job. The pay was good, however, and he did his job. He was given six months to live. That was eight years ago. He stopped going to the doctors, and simply increased his marijuana intake. Countless other friends have beaten alcohol and opiate addictions by medicating with marijuana. I don’t understand why this is considered wrong? Having grown up in a community and family that loves its alcohol, I have firsthand experience of the destruction that it causes. Destruction of community, health, and family. If the government’s position on the criminality of cannabis is based on its intoxicating effects, they have a weak position. Also, their position is weak if they base it on the toxicity of the plant itself. Legal substances have been proven over and over again to be more dangerous to the human body. I traveled with Dr. Brooks Kelly to attend the 3rd annual hemp days at the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. I went primarily, because I am outraged at the United States government, and I wanted to lend support to the cause of legalization. People came from all over the country to attend the event. Those who attended included journalists, scientists, activists, hippies, and freedom fighters. It was also evident that surveillance was extensive. Government agencies certainly were observing, as they had been at the last few years harvests. Also, it was apparent to me that another, even less conspicuous group was watching what was going on. My account is of the journey to and from this event. Before leaving for the hemp rally, I was at Hal’s shop changing the oil in my car. Hal had a shop across the street from Dr. Kelly’s medicinal mushroom farm. This guy Hal is a big, scary Native-American guy from South Central, Los Angeles. He was my friend. He had one of his iron worker buddies over at the time. The man was very abrasive, and he was giving me trouble. He said I was stupid for using synthetic oil in my engine. I recall feeling as though he really wanted to pound on me. I finished my work, despite the man’s heavy presence. Across the street, Brooks was finishing up packing for the trip. I told Brooks that I needed to collect my tools from Hal’s shop, and I would be back shortly. When I came back to Hal’s shop, the man who was so disrespectful to me earlier had a completely different attitude. He wasn’t so nasty to me anymore. It was as if he had seen a ghost and he seemed extremely frightened. Hal had the same look about him. Both men were wide-eyed and agitated. Hal described what had just happened to them. He was playing his drums along with the radio, when his cell phone rang. Nobody answered. Then, Hal explained, the radio stopped in the middle of the song and rattled off several cries of “I love you.” Hal and his buddy were in shock. They were convinced that an alien space craft had been hovering over the shop, and it was interfering with the electronic devices. I shrugged this incident off, and figured they were intoxicated. After this encounter I returned to Brooks, and we departed for the hemp harvest festival. Dr. Kelly had packed many things, and was wearing an old air force flight suit. He brought a computer, a digital camera, and many hand crafted hemp products. More importantly, he brought an eagle feather. He explained that it was given to him by a man that we were going to visit. This man, an important figure in the Lakota community, had given Brooks the feather for protection. We were returning it to him. I was glad to have it with. I figured we could use the help, as our vehicle was in less than adequate condition, the license plates were expired, it reeked of skunk, and it was uninsured. While I was driving on a main highway north of Denver, I was replaying the strange behavior of the iron workers in my head. Brooks seemed to be scanning the daytime sky as I drove. After awhille, he turned to me and asked me to look up in the sky to the east. He mentioned that the object he was looking at did not seem at all like it was an airplane. I agreed, that the object in question was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was triangle shaped, and a shiny silver color. It seemed to be moving in a strange manner, that was inconsistent with any airplane I had ever seen. It hovered, holding position, then rapidly traveled across the horizon as if it was tracking us. Soon, it vanished, appearing to head straight up and away. I recall asking Brooks not to point out anymore alien spacecraft, as I was trying to focus on the road. We arrived at Pine Ridge late at night. Prior to entering the reservation, we passed through a small town that was only a few liquor stores. I recall seeing several unconscious Native-American men laying right on the shoulder of the road. It was unlike any place I had ever been. I felt sorry for those guys, and worried that someone would run over them. I have been sad in my life, but not as sad as those men appeared to be. This was my introduction to a place that is so very depressed. Brooks and I had just hours before passed through Boulder, one of the wealthiest counties in the United States. We were now entering the poorest. The contrast was evident. The roads were no longer paved. There were no stop lights. There were no stores or fast food restaurants. It was very dark. I felt it was probably a place where a white guy like me could disappear, and never be heard from again. Still, I was unafraid. The eagle feather and the alien escort were comforting. We drove further into the reservation, passing a few burned up, abandoned vehicles along the way. It was dusty and hot. The roads were terrible. I don’t recall seeing many homes or signs of life on the way in to our camp spot. We set up camp in the dead of night. Brooks slept in a small tent, and I in my small car. I felt more secure being confined in my rusty steel cocoon. I was awakened the next morning by the sun, the heat, and the sound of conversation. Brooks was talking to someone. They greeted one another excitedly. Then the man turned my direction, and asked curtly who I was. It was obvious that he was wary of any new people on his land. I understood, as I was aware of the troubles these people have had with the United States government, the D.E.A., and F.B.I. in the past. Brooks introduced me as a friend, and everything was good. I was a strange white guy in a place where white guys don’t normally go, but I was welcomed with Brooks‘ blessing. Brooks returned the eagle feather to this man, and I learned that his name was Tom Cook. Tom is an important member in local politics and has been in charge of the areas hemp projects. I later learned that Tom is not Lakota, but Mohawk. Another man named Lupe was there helping with construction. He was a Mexican man who had married a Lakota woman. He showed us around the building that they were working on. I was learning that this reservation is not an exclusive club, and many different folks are welcome. They were cordial with me, and I think they sensed that I was not a big John Wayne fan. Brooks introduced me to Milo Yellowhair. Milo is another important man on the reservation, and a member of the American Indian Movement. He showed us a huge tepee that they had recently finished constructing. It was beautiful in design. Nearby, they were working on the components for another one. There was a large garden nearby, with many assorted vegetables growing. It was a strange spot that we camped at, an oasis in a rough place. There were positive things going on in the midst of the dust, dirt, and heat. A stream nearby fed the vegetation, but I was told to stay away from it. Apparently the federal government had done some drilling for valuable minerals on the reservation in the past. This upset some Uranium reserves, which polluted the Black Hills Aquifer. It is the only source of drinking water for the region. Too, bad. It seems like that small creek was a necessary part of the reservation. I was told stories of strange looking fish, and dead animals. Our government has been murdering these folks for years, and they refuse to let up. After meeting these folks by the creek, Brooks and I went to meet those who had come to attend the hemp rally. The event was sponsored by Hemphasis magazine. We drove a few miles to Kiza park, where a few dozen cars and a group of people were gathered. The attendees were having lunch, and some were taking turns speaking about the benefits of hemp for the environment and economy. The folks there were kind, and seemed like conscientious individuals. They welcomed us warmly and fed us lunch. I wondered which of those in attendance were undercover D.E.A. agents. It was a ragged looking bunch, but I was sure that some of those involved were there to monitor what was happening and who was there. After all, according to the federal government hemp is marijuana and is still illegal. After lunch we set up a new camp close to where the others were camping. Brooks stayed and worked on our campsite while I went to the demonstration that the others were having at a house a few miles away. I spent my time at the demonstrations taking notes and digital pictures of the area. I stayed very quiet and kept to myself. Hippies were processing the hemp stalks, and making things. Alex White Plume came and gave a short speech. He is the tribal president, and has been the man who has absorbed the most aggression of the D.E.A He spoke of the runaway government that was controlling this country. I agreed then, and I still do. I noticed that he never took part in any of the activities. He didn’t harvest any hemp, or make any hemp products with the others. He came and said a few words, and then was on his way. I assumed that he was well aware that his participation would make him a target for prosecution. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see any other local people from the reservation participating in the demonstration, or at the lunch hosted by Hemphasis. The Lakota people, for the most part, avoided connection with the hempers. Smart move, I figured. I did the same. I didn’t harvest any hemp with the hippies, or make any hemp products. After the demonstration, I returned to camp. Brooks was there fixing steaks on a fire. He was looking pretty bad, as if he was getting sick. It looked like pink eye. From what I understood, some angels had pissed in his eye while he was asleep. I don’t know what Brooks had done to make those angels so upset, but his eye looked really bad. Also, Brooks then informed me that a remote control spy plane had flown over the area where we were camping. This news was rather unsettling. I wondered which federal agency the drone represented, and if there would be any agents to follow. Near our campsite, there was a hand painted sign that read, “Dirt loving, tree hugging is upon us.” I found this rather amusing, and wondered who painted it. Seems that not everyone on the reservation was excited about this event. However, the folks that I was introduced to on the reservation were very kind. They didn’t seem to be upset at my presence. Either way, between the story of the spy plane, and Brooks’ bad eye, I was ready to leave. We hadn’t had any up close encounters with any authority figures, and I wasn’t really looking forward to any. So we split. On the way out of the reservation, we passed through a police roadblock unbothered. Later on that evening, as we headed home to the mountains, Brooks was staring into the night sky as I drove. He turned to me and asked if I saw the strange lights hovering in the sky to the west. Sure enough, the lights seemed to be moving in a strange manner. Not traveling like any airplane I had ever seen. I learned much from my trip to the reservation with Brooks. Despite the heat and the bad roads, we made it there and back safely. I’m sure the Eagle feather and the alien escort had something to do with our success. It was good to meet others who feel as I do about cannabis. Hopefully, the folks living on the reservation will soon be allowed to grow their hemp crops legally. It seems that they could really use the income. I’ve seen oppressed people before, but this is on a whole different level. These guys are the originally oppressed around here. There are not many other crops, if any, that will grow out there. I will attest, that the plants these guys are growing are strictly industrial commodities. I tried to smoke a bit of it, with no stony effects. The only “pot” I came across on my trip was held by white guys (me), not “Indians.“ The United States government needs to ease up on the people that owned this land for so long. I say, leave them alone, and let them have their weeds. Everyone knows, aliens included, that they are harmless.