| A Day on the Desert by Nadine Sellers |
Sunny one spring, winter next, as the days go by, yesterday tulips, tonight frostbite; the high desert is still full of surprises. Being of one desperate ilk, poetic, albeit necessarily brutal of course; I, do not write fiction, all relevant material perhaps veiled under location, name, and pen surgery. I hope to soon find a comfortable home for the computer, to keep just a few branches above the abyss: I am tied to the necessities of our lives and that prevents me from dwelling into fertile reflection. Responsible and nurturing by nature, I yield to life's demands, perennially playing the role of thing saver and people rescuer. I keep my muskrat face barely above muddy water by staying too busy saving everything else. I'm down to salvaging just one or two now. First, I had tried to save the world, then once I had become a mother I plunged headlong into the welfare of the children. Then again, nature, education, patients, uh! That's more than one or two? Must be due to narrowing of the cerebral arteries, who's even thinking?, I'm a feeling animal; heck! If I save the darn cat, I'm doing good! Kids grown and gone - career aflame - back home to the European nations - reap one or two literary laurels - back to the US of A - back home again to France - abject poverty soon set in - much history to log in for this writer's future old age - oops, did that age thing sneak in ? - back to the US. - The West keeps a'callin' (no, no! I just like to be humiliated by immigration procedure every time I move) that's yet another story. Traveling stateside - two humans and a Siamese kitten, two back packs in a pick up truck - career on chronic hold - nursing - remodeling - teaching - have hope - will work - anything to support the music for the sake of art and especially the artists. Enough roughing it for now, got to go feed my curves before they all go south. It's too easy to find food for the weary in this country!, my friends often claim that, come doom or high water, they'll follow me to the pasture; that's how much trust I inspire in the downtrodden and the hungry. It's disgusting to be so resourceful, can't even get me a lick of sympathy! There's just no rest for the tough and healthy; (I had to catch some rare virulent pneumonia named hantavirus to stir a well of untapped empathy,)- - - got over it much too quickly though! Haven't learned to play on my many minor attributes yet. My mother always said that I should practice being feminine? She meant wily, but I got a few good years left to educate my senses, nature will surely do the rest. I am, after all, an optimist trapped in a realist's medulla enlargata. It stirs the writer to notice that this reader truly understands what I intuit; and yes, by all means, let's avoid telling people that it is poetry, lyrical discourse may be more suitably stewed for the undiscerning digestive apparatus of the weak of liver and the soft of bowel. Dry wolf pelt hanging in fierce wind |
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