That was how it happened, and I took a turkey feather and ground oak galls down into powder, made ink from the powder of oak mixed with ash from our fire, and I was going to write out our stories, our past. But we had no paper, there were only books, and the books were already filled with writing. The books told how to combat a rattlesnake bite, how to drill a well, how to build a cabin right and true, how to treat frostbite, how to amputate when gangrene sets in, how to attend childbirth, how to plant crops when the moon is new and fog dances lightly over the ground. These were sacred texts, the commandments that ensured our survival, and my stories had no place in those books.
So I took my turkey feather quill pen, I took my ash and oak gall ink, and I wrote our stories wherever they would fit. I wrote on the fabric inside our caravans. I wrote on the outside of our wagons. I wrote on my clothing, I wrote on my skin. There were so many stories, and no where to write them, for we were always moving, there was no time, no materials. The stories were frivolous, silly, unvalued, and as I filled in margins and the backs of maps, the others began to see an illness in my obsession with the stories.
May 16, 2012
hi ho, Silver:
(new timing belt to follow in the very near future)