what would happen if i tried to write a picaresque?

Today (well, yesterday by some clocks), on the train to Sydney, I watched the curve of the Earth undulate past in between gulping down the pages of “Trickster Makes this World”.

It was a dry dry dry dry dust bowl coat that the fields wore (woe to the sheep farmer and the stacker of sheaves).

My perspective and horizon will always be cut by Landscape; the narratives informing the Anthropocene are complex.

This entry was posted in Winter.