Attempting to bound my project into some concrete truth has been like trying to grasp a fist full of Manitoba clay; the tighter I squeezed, the more of it slipped through my fingers. I would then scoop up the droppings, compact it again, and squeeze with all my might; only to find little left in my hand once more. The repetition of this movement became a mantra, and as the project began to sway back and forth, I began to meditate. I closed my eyes and instead of looking at the clay my hand was trying to force into shape, I saw for the first time the mounds that had fallen at my feet. When I opened my eyes again I saw a river that flowed red. I noticed the mounds, like the clay ideas that had fallen from my hands, erupting from the surface of the water. There was a sharp bend in the river, and in the crook of that bend was a grove of maple trees sheltering my dad's maroon 1962 Ford where my mom and dad were dating. I looked up and saw that the moon was full and the stars were right, and I knew that a practicum was about to be born. (Abstract shortened by UMI.)