| remaining numbers on the psychic AM dial, and end to end on the FM band, the one that connects us with the stars. |
| Once there was a Traveler, a woman with a name no one could see. She drummed word processor keys and organized for the clerical union in a small university town outside Detroit. Since her father was from Alabama, her mother from Canada, she naturally homed in on a north-south polar hotline in the Network grid. It cut right through the straits, the sacred water crossings, the place we call Detroit. Her mother had been a high yellow beauty, a farm girl from western Ontario, where redwings tend wheat fields on the other side of the river. As a joke, that beauty once stabbed lacquered chopsticks through the twist in her hair. The year was 1942, and it didn't play well on the Ambassador Bridge. Two border guards skated onto the running boards of the old Ford and escorted the family to one side. Hard to convince them she wasn't Japanese, an escapee from a camp in Utah, the authorities not at all amused when she didn't listen to their questions. Whistling a few bars of "Maple Leaf Forever," lost her pucker and could only blow air through her laughter. When she let down her hair, flashed her Billie Holiday kiss-my-ass smile, they finally allowed her back into Detroit. That was 1942: a year before the riots. |
| Travelers believe in the power of light. They know the shining is always there, in darkness or the stretch of day. It pokes through the planetrips through sand, clay, rock, and magmaor comes at us straight on, sailing through space in divine transparency. Travelers navigate, transmit, and make preparations. They calibrate turtle shells, adjust our meanderings to the stars, plow heaven, replant the sky with fireflies, exploding corn, the exuberant cries of yucca blossoms. The Travelers have stayed tuned. |
|
![Madhav Deshpande - Critical Studies in Indian Grammarians I: The Theory of Homogeneity [Sāvarṇya]](/uploads/posts/book/255206/thumbs/madhav-deshpande-critical-studies-in-indian.jpg)
