Monday, July 20, 2009


Stage One drought is dry.
In Stage Two the sweat trickling behind your knees may be the same volume as the water trickling in the river bed. The whole world smells of animal urine built up, rather than washed away. Abandoned spiderwebs cling to bush and branch.
Stage Three makes you forget. Forgotten smells: Dust blowing, buffalo grass baking, rain. Without humidity, scent is lost. The leaves of trees curl in on themselves. Forgotten colors: Green, azure, gray.
Heat dances on roads and over prairie beneath relentless sun in the white sky dome.
The mosquitoes, who thrive on life, die. They are replaced by flies on the dead.
In Stage Four... you move.

My geographical area is almost always in at least level one. It took me a while to realize that since moving here my creativity also follows a drought pattern. It is all too easy for me to become isolated and empty. I read a memoir by an African nomad recently, who described the constant life and death search for water that defines the nomadic existence. I am realizing that I, too, must always search for waters of creativity to fill me, or I will be caught unaware by drought.

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