Page 141

To be introduced in various areas of the book in accordance with there substance. Book writers beneath the soil. Chapter IX It was time for me to dance. Yes, indeed, it was time for singing. Loud, as I would begin to persue the illusive and forgotton dreams of book writers lying beneath the soil. I would give my spirit a kiss uncaring. I would run out of the shadows of the past and capture all the excitement of the world in a joyess form. A rhythm for me in sweetness, let it lie, beneath the scent of a million years of flowers, as I walk along picking fruit to munch on my way across the colorfullness of a new vision. Carefree and careless, I will go, in my march without drums. My arms will dangle, as my finger tips feel the sensation of all distant things. No more walls to close in on me, and my skull would begin to feel the warmth of pink flesh again. Late summer had been a time of going to Greek picnics and Polish picnics, and to the gatherings of the Lithuanians and the Italians. The fun of a summer day with sparkling wine set upon the long tables of laughter. I would talk with the older men, as I walked around sipping beer and now and then downing a streight shot of burbon. My body would feel heated with goodness; and the girls of rainbow loveliness would smile, as their cheeks turned in circles under the flashing sun. The rhythm of the folk music. Smiling girls with the mystery of a gypsy past, practiced only on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday mornings were flashing too, for socker games on the Hungarian field, and watching Beaver's Irish brotherinlaw battle it out with his fancy feet flying across the dirt and scattered stones. I walked through all of this laughing, with a beard and tennis shoes, completely unaware, of course, of the game I had begun. I didn't know quite where to go, quite what to do. I left the employ of my father, and told him, that no sort of business career could ever be a part of me. All the same, I kept the rich girl clinging at my side. We could see