My Name

Thirza is not my name. It’s a name my mother gave me to hide under. It’s worked well on that front, but I can’t use it anymore. You can use it if you like, but it’s imprecise, it only talks about half of who I am. The name I prefer is Marion. Although I have taken on over a thousand names during this journey. My real name is the Boat Puller, or Sacajawea in Shoshone, which was a tribe I belonged to in my last life, among other tribes. I’ve been jumping around from tribe to tribe working with the underside of what people see. At this point everything is in place, there is no more work to be done except tell you a story, and old story. And you can tell me it is a myth if you like, if that makes you sleep better at night. And you can tell me I am crazy if you like, but it won’t make a difference. We have been sowing threads and clues through history and time, but people who can see only half the world can’t see what the reality is.

In truth I came for my men in my last life, I showed them things, I taught them things, but they still missed half the lesson. So I repaid a karmic debt to them by sacrificing myself to the sea in the Gulf of Mexico. There is nothing tying me to this plane anymore, that was the end. I did sacrifice myself another time though during this life, to find out what was going on with the sleeping people, I made myself forget things for a while, and I sent something to come and wake me at a specific age, and I spent eight years learning the secret of darkness, which is not always darkness.

I have been watching silently, it’s an old trick of Queens, to sit on the sidelines and observe before making decisions. I have been unravelling this thread and finding out where it goes. And I can start to explain why things happened the way they did.

The Spaniards came to take our gold, but what was truly precious got hidden before they came. Gold has two sides to it, to most people it is only seen as wealth, something which can be taken from others and used to your advantage. But that’s not how gold works. Gold follows a bloodline, it follows a path, it carries memories and sometimes it will seek it’s own revenge when it falls into the hands of people who aren’t meant to have it. Nazi gold is operating the exact same way, it’s been following a bloodline, and it’s been listening to stories, and it dressed itself up nice and fine so that it could follow it’s enemies.

I can only laugh when I think of how Europeans took New World gold, smelted it down and turned it into their icons, how they have been praying to it not even realizing they are praying to an old old old being that is not who they’ve made it become. I can only laugh when I think that our gold is in every major centre of a warring fighting dualistic religion.

I had to bring them here. I had to entice them to take what wasn’t theirs. I had to trick them, to become very wiley, to lure them into bringing a base of brute power to the New World, where they could be ambushed. I’ve been toying with bloodlines, adding some here and there, mixing them in certain ways, calling people over waters to come to this place and be free, even though they pretend freedom is slavery. I had to spend time with them listening to their half stories, filling in the missing spaces. I have done legendary things just so I could follow the trail, go backwards, find out who I am, even if I become mythic and a half story. There are people who can read the untold story, the other half. It’s not really so hard. I’ve been watching them too, I think they’re ready. And I think to the people who can only read a half story, this story too will be seen as a half story, I can speak the truth and people will say it’s a lie and that is fine by me. I didn’t come for the people who think in half stories.

At this point most of my people are hiding in America, in ways you can’t see, with drops of my blood sprinkled in them, some more than most but all of it calling them to remember something so old it’s become too good to be true. They have stories to follow and tell, stories from their tribes, and sometimes it seems to be the same story over and over. They sometimes don’t even know they have this power, they assumed that they were so diluted one drop didn’t matter. And sometimes they felt they owed more to other bloodlines, and sometimes they do, but they can access this story anyway because it’s the story of us all, and all of us are hearing it pulling at our root.