At first, the words dried up completely. Or I thought they had.
Two pink lines in a tiny window on a plastic stick splattered with wee. Watching them darken.
Nodding. Smiling. Not telling.
I'm an iceberg now. If an iceberg can have a molten centre. The bit everyone can see is still sticking upright into the world, trying to get stuff done. Teaching, driving, shopping, organising painters, paying bills, organising actors to travel from Zambia to Cape Town for a festival, taking sick cat to and from the vet. But underneath, this growing bulk, still invisible to the untrained eye. A creeping, cumulative other consciousness that even I'm barely able to access, let alone share.
No, the words didn't dry up. Or freeze. They just went underground. Banking down into the earth, rooting, delving. Seeking some other place of renewal that I won't see or understand til they filter up again.
And until then I'm a sporadic blogger.