The news is nothing but a background hum – less about tragedies and tiny
triumphs than it is about rhythm, as it insinuates itself into everything, from the
speed at which I eat my breakfast to the jaunty spring in my step as I almost
dance across parched fields where nothing will ever grow again. To my left,
doctors sell controlled drugs in pick ‘n’ mix baggies; to my right, a man in a
brocaded gown smashes a baby grand with a sledgehammer; and straight ahead,
a woman in blood-dashed overalls straps a child to a burning wheel. But there’s
still room for miracles, for turning water into wine, and for raising red dust back
to brimming life; and although it’s so hot that my eyes are melting behind my
shades, even disaster is in 5/4 time and the key change will bring sweet, sweet
rain
.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
.