Seasons

There don’t seem to be distinctive seasons in Pitsane, just desert extremes. When I’m up, I’m up. When I’m down, I’m down and it’s all made psychedelic and pretty by mefloqine dreams, sing song mosquitoes, and bright birds. Its winter and then summer. Right now there’s a confusing shift, a hazy warm winter period. Winter is cold, and as described by more than one person from Pitsane, summer is sweltering. I get rude stares, but a genuine kindness you can’t even find in the smallest town in America. The stares feel rude, but they’re mostly curious as to why this American is living away from her family for two years, and just as important, why she talks to dogs and chases farm animals (baby goats are quite adorable and I’m inclined to follow them around saying “come here baby goat” with a piece of edible foliage in my hand). The seasons are changing gradually and imperceptibly. Suddenly mosquitoes whisper threats in my ears at night and people know my name.