This is a turquoise-ish pot that we bought at Indian Market a couple of years ago - I can't now remember, to my chagrin, from what tribe its maker came - not a local one, for sure, but one from somewhere up in Nebraska or maybe Oregon. I think. But maybe I can check, this summer - I've just found that the 2010 Market, happily, is the weekend before we leave town. I've lodged a dried Chinese Gooseberry pod in it - if I stretch the analogy like stringy putty, I could make this fit the piece that I've been struggling with writing all day, on Pauline Johnson's Legends of Vancouver, Edward Curtis's In The Land of the Head Hunters (his 1915 movie), and Indian encounters and compromises with modernity. This is, indeed, already in existence as a conference paper. Or I thought it was - it seems very situation-specific, and also to be only about 1,500 words long, whereas the article should reach quite a bit further than that. It's strange revisiting my Transatlantic Indian (or in this case, just white - Indian transcultural) arguments, when I've of late been so immersed in the world of flash photography, and of other flashes - some of which are, at long last, flickering around the horizon outside in the form of lightning.