Doug Sadler

In this dream I am moving through a misting fog and there is a death that must occur. I catch glimpses of my life as I push through, moments haloed in a golden light (some sort of idyllic memory); the light never melting the fog I’m wading through. And then, suddenly, I’m in the film Paris, Texas ambling through the desert. I’m Harry Dean Stanton and I’m confused and lost.

This is nothing like the present moment. In the present moment, the day is cool and moist, the first grass cuttings of summer decaying all around. Yesterday the mowers were howling and then a fine, soft overnight rain settled everything and brought on the hopeful smell of summer decay. Chicken feed grain silos in the distance. The faint buzz of tires on asphalt.

No, this moment is nothing like that one. In this moment the possibility of quitting the fool’s game of creative pursuit, maybe hanging drywall, doing something (anything!) that dirties the fingernails, that offers a clear and simple place in the machine and allows the mind to find a steady, complacent buzz – in this moment that possibility holds an exotic allure.

But the moments are not related. To force them together would be to fall into the trap again: the majestic seeking of mythic undertones. And I’ve quit all that. No more of the “creative life” for me. The wracking of mind and soul to inspire oneself and others, to account for real or imagined slights, to earn some imaginary love or worth – no, no, no.

No, this moment and that moment, they do not connect.

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