Goodbye Ink and Paper Dix-Neuf

Words from off the beaten path.

Block by block. The little pieces all come together, like beads collecting on a strand.
I don't approve of this kind of puzzle.
All the offers I toss aside.
Contrast follows me closely.

The ordinary.

I don't want anything more than to see your face when I open the door.
Let's hike up the hill. I know we'll be out of breath by the time we make it to the top.
I'm sure I'll win out in the end, Pouncing up and down, grinning ear to ear, a sore winner.
Follow me, I can clear out a trail, but you will be walking below, I like to run ahead.
I know it doesn't seem fair, but I'll send you a postcard when I make it there.
If I pause for a break, I'm sure that I won't be passed.
Raising dust.
I can rest awhile if you really want to be first.
An actress, a trail as a stage, I am willing to play second for a bit.
I go through stages, does this mean I'm not clever?
It's not that I'm letting you win...you seem so determined, it would be wrong of me to ignore that.
While cavorting, I sense another person, the fear stops me from pulling faces.
Bunny Ears.
I explained that only recently. Alright, I shouldn't have done it in that way.
I used salty phrases and I waited too long to say it. The expressions escaped me.
I waited for an hour or so, I had a notebook and a pencil to pass the time.
All it takes is a phonecall, but there wasn't any reception way out there, I was on a hill if you recall.
Too tired, time for sleep. I moved too quickly, slinking through passageways, I found a way out, so did they.
I think somewhere we switched places, I had no idea, It escaped my notice.
"Keep going"
"I need a break"
"Well take it when we are at the top and- -"
"There is a pebble in my shoe!"
Any excuse is acceptable in that pitiable condition.
I use it again.
"Maybe you can make a necklace from all these pebbles"

Miscommunication. I pick out the shiniest stones, I put them all together.

I even out the rough edges against a sharper rock. Reshaping.

I give, easily.

You let me have my way. Sitting atop a rock, I look down, my palms feel funny.

We plodded much farther than I thought, it's not a hill, it's a mountain.

Now, I have think about how I can get back down, and I will, it's inevitable, but I still won.

Carousels.

Tomorrow I'll leap to the otherside of the railing. I can see all of the characters, gilded mirrors, and multicolored lights. I use thoughts to pass the time before it starts up. I don't want anything more than to see your face as it spins around in your direction. Lit up brighter than the bulbs above me.

Some thoughts about my relatives in South Dakota:

The feathered and blanketed figure of the American Indian has come to symbolize the American continent. He is the man who through centuries has been molded and sculpted by the same hand that shaped its mountains, forests, and plains, and has marked the course of its rivers.

The American Indian is of the soil, whether it be the region of forests, plains, pueblos, or mesas. He fits into the landscape , for the hand that fashioned the continent also fashioned the man for his surroundings. He once grew as naturally as the sunflowers; he belongs just as the buffalo once belonged.

The bodies had souls, also formed and molded by the same master hand that fashioned harmony. Out of the Indian approach to existence there came a great freedom-an intense and absorbing love for nature; a respect for life; enriching faith in a Supreme Power; and principles of truth, honesty, generosity, equity, and family as a guide to mundane relations.

Headwaters

Noon in the intermountain plain:

There is scant telling of the marsh-

A log, hollow and weather-stained,

An insect at the mouth, and moss-

Yet waters rise against the roots, Stand brimming to the stalks. What moves?

What moves on this archaic force

Was wild and welling at the source.

We talk, you listen.

With the rise of ethnic studies programs and courses in minority-group history, the Natives situation has become worse. By recognizing that Indians have contributed the names of rivers to the road map, many poeple feel that they have done justice to the group concerned.

A documentary, camera flashes, a crew hastens to either the Navaho or Pine Ridge reservation, quickly shooting reels on poverty conditions, and return to where they came from, blithely thinking that they have captured the essence of Indian life. In spite of the best intentions, the eternal yearning to present an exciting story of a strange people overcomes them. The endless cycle of poverty-oriented films continues. There is no effort to present the bright side of Indian life.

Parallels. That's all. I made the connection.