To The Ghost of Ethan Edwards (first letter)

Dear Mr. Edwards,
What has ever been taken from you?
You have always run on empty. Your need to blame is consistently absolute.  You animate Whiteness with your horrible will.
Perfection, manliness, gravitas — what are these words and their meanings? You claim they’re disrespectfully buried in a shit pile called History. You assert your righteousness by damning it all to hell.
You’re not a lunatic fringe. You’re a madness waiting everywhere. You conjure up purities violated by alien forces. You want an excuse to shoot.
You’re a specter of Race. You’re dead and stinking up the place.
You’ve expanded the Frontier to a point of dissolution. It wraps the planet in multiple layers, like flight paths and TV channels, blogs and car bombs. The whole world is now found and lost. Your involvement is no longer necessary.
You won’t be deciding the business of getting on with business. You’ve been relegated to a grab bag of dirty tricks. You’ve always been there anyway. It’s just that Capital can’t hide it any longer.
When you finally found your daughter, where did all the hatred go? You couldn’t kill her despite yourself. The story keeps being told but the ending never cuts it. You’ll need to be forgiven before you can rest in peace.