Fourteen months of gray sweatpants
Here we are again, blank screen. I can hear your blinking cursor laughing at me.
I know how this is supposed to work. I’m supposed to be inspired to fill you. Heaven knows you can’t write yourself.
I remember the firehose of words and images that once kept my fingers moving across your keyboard. They held substance and form that couldn’t be contained. Then the flow abruptly slowed to a trickle. It’s now been over a year.
I often manage to string some words together so you don’t go naked for too long. But there was a time when I was constantly drawn, driven, compelled to dress you in one-of-a-kind designs, fashions from another world.
I miss that.
California isn’t the only one in a state of drought.