In the early '70s, for several years, I lived part of the year
down in the mountains in Chiapas, in Southern Mexico,
near the Guatemala border.
It was one of the dreams of my life
to be surrounded by Indians.
And I noticed while I was there that there were myths.
I was also surrounded by anthropologists.
And we talked.
I worked with them.
And we were working with Indian myths all the time.
It was very, very heady stuff.
It was wonderful.
But I noticed that there were myths about almost all
creatures you could think of.
But the insects didn't do so well.
And I thought this was strange, considering the role
that insects played in most people's lives.
And, in particular, there was nothing about fleas.
Now, how are going to overlook fleas?
I mean, if you went to the movies,
the fleas got there first.
And they kept persuading you that you'd better
be sitting in another seat, wherever you were sitting.
And the men on the mountains carried everything
with tumplines, of course.
And one of the ways of referring to themselves
was as carrying men.
So, I wrote a poem about a flea as a carrying man, you see.
"A Flea's Carrying Words" is the title of the poem.
"A flea is carrying a bag of diseases.
And he says, as he goes, these I did not make myself.
We don't all have the same gifts.
Beginning isn't everything.
I don't even know who made them.
I don't know who'll use them.
I don't use them myself.
I just do what's in front of me, as I'm supposed to.
I carry them.
Nobody likes me.
Nobody wants to change places with me.
But I don't mind.
I get away, bag and all.
Something needs me.
Everything needs me.
I need myself.
And the fire is my father."