Posted in Almost Dorothy

The Painted Desert

Painted Desert | Photo by Neil de la Flor

I swear I’m still here somewhere solidly light and levitating between Gravity the Seducer and the Witching Hour. Ma says I should go out and play but I can’t play because I’m working on a new play titled, “A New Play[a]”. I swear there are no swear words or conversations with giraffes in this play. Not even the words fuck or shit. There’s not a bad word on any page. I haven’t written any pages yet, but it’s all in my head. Every word, every sentence fills my cranium like the dust filled our lungs when we got stuck in a sand storm in the Painted Desert. Ma and I, petrified in the face of dust and disaster, hid beneath a bridge. We froze and huddled together. Held each other tight–our arms the arms of velociraptors. We inhaled with carefulness until danger passed us to the left. My new play is a play about dust and lungs, about a girl who becomes a girl after 20 years of searching for her Ladytron. Searching for a way out of the desert and into her mother’s arms.

To be, more or less, continued…


I'm not real, but I'm a writer.

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