July 27, 2023. Thursday. Still later in the week, as time flies as it does

Here I am the first morning in Saskatchewan; this finally for me. I sit and type with enough power on my laptop to bang out these words on the computer, the Bill Gates creation of Word. Or was that him? The one I used to curse duly from the 1990s into the 2000s. I am distracted by the means of the tools of which I write, not going into the content of what is occurring on a big scale…

              I sit in a lawn chair, unfolded, the one I sat in next to the fire and my family last night. It was pleasant. The temperatures are good. Great, even. Smores were good, dinner was delicious. My second daughter put it together. She will go to Europe and Asia this fall. No small things.

              A large bird, likely a crow, caws from the east, just behind me and the camping lot. We camp in lots in this modern era. Rather Fordian, really. Ford. Quite the efficient one.

              I note that my laptop has enough battery power, which I am grateful for. The power outlet across the way does not fit regular electric plug ins, that I own, as it seems.

              Now the wind rustles in the leaves of the nearby trees. Beautiful morning. Birds make beautiful noises and music. There are the sound of cars and trucks, but distant. There is bountiful nature here at this provincial park in the Plains of Canada. Lower plains of this great country.

              Perhaps my writings be disjointed, but true. Like me, I hope.

              I texted my Aunt Mary on my father’s side. The one from Canada. She has never been here, nor Manitoba, as I have (now). I started the conversation in Winnipeg. I realized some things about her as an aunt, to me, and her daughter as a cousin. This while I am well into my 50s. I will be 53 this fall, the age of death of George Michael, that came up on the radio and in discussion.

              The wind or breezes are blowing cooly but nice. Very pleasant in this cropped or artificially construed forest glade. Programmed nature, still pleasant and real. I digress. But really too much. A louder car or vehicle passes a half mile or senjoyableo away…

              The sun has risen over the tree tops to the east, and I saw the orb, our gaseous life source, first peek over the leaves and branches, its rays harmless. But as the minutes progressed I know I did not want its x-rays infiltrating my skin. Its warmth is coming, but not for me directly yet. I avoid it as I can. More especially at my age. Less poison or aging, perhaps. Some get burnt treacherously, but maybe they will not suffer any permanent damage. Here’s hoping.

              I heard a stir in the children’s tent. Closer by to me. I heard my wife a few short minutes ago as I read,  enjoyably, savoringly, longingly, Hemingway’s Moveable Feast. He spoke of freeing a poor bank worker T.S. Eliot from his vocation in London. At least he had work. And he was freed by these other artists in Paris. That is solidarity, one hundred years ago after the War to End All Wars.

              I write and type poorly as I go. This is me. But I express my ideas, as they flow to my head. Distractions abound, even in the errors and mistypes. But I can write. If I am compelled, as now.

              Hemingway has me thinking and writing. Reflecting, as we would preach in my writing class in the early summer of 1992. When I read and contemplated Alice Walker and others.

              What else? I had a few other good things to say, likely about Canada, and aging, and having a family, and talking politics with my daughter and the others, and meeting a couple from Alberta, on their way to a wedding north of Winnipeg, and likely the Metis, and the Assiniboine, or the newer name that they go by, much harder than Eskimo to Inuit. We talked to the older couple about Blackfoot AND Blackfeet. That helps explain things for sure. Or I mention connecting Ojibwa with Chippewa. How could I not know? At least we do things now, like make it to the Canadian Plains, or read the last posthumous (no, first!) and I believe critically acclaimed novel by Ernest Hemingway. It is good, as much of what he writes.

              But I can write, too. Of this I need to be assured. I have things to say, as Dalia Rosenfeld messaged me from Israel while I was in Kuwait. Two countries artificially constructed, some might argue, as the camping plots that I write from this tremendous and peaceful Thursday morning, as I bang out the words and thoughts and feelings in my brain and heart, the fingers mispounding some letters. A little squirrel crops up in the shrubbery near me…

              What else? I could say and explicate other things. Life is good. We try to give to the next generation, as a summary of my debates and dialogs with my daughter and others go when speaking of politics, incentives, polices, programs, and failures to succeed. For me it is not about Black, Brown and White. Leave that to others, unfortunately. The squirrel is chirping vociferously with a bird, I think. Loud and kind of funny. Right, maybe another squirrel. I have never heard it like that!

              Like rap music, somewhat. Ha.

              The battery on this device warns me of so many minutes left. I must find a power source, like for my phone. I will close this out and read the rest of the Feast. Birds sing their awesome tunes. Bee, bee, beeeeeeeeeee. It is musical and consonant. That might be the word. Resonant. Nice.

              All right, no one else up, but I am hopeful I have figured out the time to return to Indiana and Virginia, with the time to see and feel the reservations. Must commune with the native folks and ghosts of the past and present. Sioux, Cheyenne, even the crow. They wiped out the bison, but we can talk to their cousins and forebearers.

              We pray to God and acknowledge Wakan Taka. Great spirit and spirits, happy to be here. Wonderful outdoors.

              Peace and shalom. From all the corners of the earth.

              It is 07:52 ish local time! Time really does dissipate and fly, like fast sands in a minute glass.