A Note on Method
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What Gives ... and ... Still Here ...
circle and leave gaps.
Space isn't decoration — it's where the reader and listener do the work.
Assemblage applied to text.
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A single word can be a complete thought.
A question like What does this mean? is a bell that rings and empties the situation or atmosphere.
Fragmentary pieces strip away almost everything unnecessary.
What remains is pristine bone.
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Our philosophy enacts this.
What was suppressed ... stolen ... erased ... is now something nourishing and curiously uplifting.
Rebellion against formalism threw out Roman numerals because they carried too much colonial heaviness.
Moon names and seasons do the organizing now.
The land's calendar. Not Rome's.
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Miskwaadesi speaks like an elder who only answers when asked.
A sugar maple tree speaks in gentle refrain.
The plants have voices because they have always had voices.
We just wrote them down.
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Collaborations were the seeds.
Fragments offered. Trellises built. Pruning. Revision.
This back and forth.
This way we pushed for a better full spectrum of foodways.
Not one sacred grain — all of it. The timpsila. The bison. The cattail. The chokecherry. The Labrador tea brewed golden in winter.
Everything the land gives.
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It is attention and willingness to keep asking:
What does this mean?
or
How did this happen?
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These books are Oyparaploo.
Beautiful Garbage — what was discarded, transformed.
Terminal reduction — what remains after stripping away.
Assemblage — fragments becoming whole.
Conversation — seeds becoming trellises becoming fruit.
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The falls are gone.
We are still here.
The method remembers.
