The Snow ... Came In Thick Tufts

I Write In Order To Find Out What I Truly Know And How I Really Feel About Certain Things. Writing Requires Me To Go Much Deeper Into My Thoughts And Memories Than Conversation Does. Writing Provides The Solitude Necessary To Reflect On Being In This World.

Then They Grow Away From The Earth Then They Grow Away From The Sun Then They Grow Away From The Plants And The Animals. They See No Life. When They Look They See Only Objects. The World Is A Dead Thing For Them The Trees And The Rivers Are Not Alive. The Mountains And Stones Are Not Alive. The Deer And Bear Are Objects. They See No Life. They Fear. They Fear The World. They Destroy What They Fear. They Fear Themselves.

For A Long Time He Had Been White Smoke. He Did Not Realize That Until He Left The Hospital, Because White Smoke Had No Consciousness Of Itself. It Faded Into The White World Of Their Bed Sheets And Walls; It Was Sucked Away By The Words Of Doctors Who Tried To Talk To The Invisible Scattered Smoke... They Saw His Outline But They Did Not Realize It Was Hollow Inside.

But Sometimes What We Call 'memory' And What We Call 'imagination' Are Not So Easily Distinguished.

The American Public Has Difficulty Believing ... [that] Injustice Continues To Be Inflicted Upon Indian People Because Americans Assume That The Sympathy And Tolerance They Feel Toward Indians Is Somehow 'felt' Or Transferred To The Government Policy That Deals With Indians. This Is Not The Case.