. . . and with that, goodbye to that decade.
I want to be a farmer of words…strictly organic…knowing each word I’ve planted will produce something sustainable. I want to master the husbandry of words…know what it takes for them to grow strong and viable, to see words sprouting in a field that I have made ready…to know which to cull and which to feed. I would rain on them from porch swings or Paris, fertilize them with prayer and presence.
I want to be a mad scientist of words…an anthropologist of words…and spend some time as alphabet-sous chef to William Least Heat Moon.
I want to put on a little lace camisole, a short ruffly skirt and some well-worn cowboy boots and go out dancing with words…in the French Quarter to a Doobie’s cover band…I want to taste Jack & Coke on the mouth of words…words against my neck…words that have a houseboat right on the river, not far from here…words in rivulets…
I want to be a field surgeon of words…the triage of words…able to keep somebody alive with words alone.
I want to debate words at Oxford and win.
But I will remain a recluse in a cabin on the Lesser Slave Lake of words…to be found a few months after I’ve died…to be posthumously unpublished, famously unknown.