I think I've been transported to the desert. What was green is now brown. My perky gerber daisy has heat stroke and the grass has become fodder for horses. I used to dream of walking barefoot on the grass, but today it may cut my feet. While red is a good color, it would clash with my new pedicure. The fashionistas would not approve. Just ask Carol who is investigating purple. She dropped her drill on foot. Purple is a good color, not for toes. The swelling is going down we think, but can't tell because her body's natural response to heat is swelling. Perhaps around November we will be able to tell if the toes have improved.
I've been working on revising the draft of my children's story. I've hit a wall. Not sure if it's permanent. Hoping it's not cemented to my psyche. Seems like I want to be Scout instead of writing about her. Playing in the sun and becoming a princess sounds good to me. I'm second guessing my career choice. Perhaps I really hate being a writer and I just haven't realized it yet. I want to be the Ozarka man, delivering bottled water. When the truck's empty he goes home. And the uniform is hot. Okay, not really, but it can be on the right body. Are my words like the water and is my head like the truck? When it's empty can I go home? Or will it keep replenishing itself like a mountain stream, creating a well written aqua nightmare with no preservatives or calories?
Scout calls; I answer.