Sunday, January 27, 2013
Right now the Prairie air is thick and freely liquid that's more suggestive of the March turning than still January. My wardrobe of sweatshirt, sweatpants rain jacket and tuque is ridiculously comfortable in this soup; makes me feel supremely masculine and Midwestern for reasons I don't really understand myself. I want to crawl through mud and apply a wrench to some random chink of truck metal, or march through the woods on the edge of a riverbank to find the buried evidence of an old mafia conspiracy. I want to inspire meatpackers to arms with some brillant speech the evokes all the old ghosts and gods of our fathers or combine the grizzly the cougar and the stag all alike into one brotherhood of an army through the pure shining force of my vision. I want every meal to be black coffee, chicken stew, fried black pudding, garlic and onion . Most of all I want to read scripture aloud drink rum and sing all in the same act.