Were did my wigwam go?
My wetu no longer in situ
I was crossing the plains, aghast at the amount of carpal tunnel syndrome attached to the incessant use of alkaline powered devices held high as the whooping windmills. Not to mention the lack of red ocher I could find. Not pots this evening for you, I thought. No corncob, no ocher, no wigwam, no culture. In the morning I am leaving for L’Anse aux Meadows, to stand on a long house shouting wineberry, then often ride the backs of jelly fish and forget this lack of human decency. From there I’m on to Twillingate, for to drink syrup soda with my old friend Harvey the dead lighthouse keeper. Maybe St. John’s after, to drink stolen vodka with the fucking Russians — then we shall enter a sweat lodge built on Signal Hill.