Thirteen Non-Essential Things I Probably Won’t Do Before I Die:
Build a Victorian-proud glass greenhouse in the backyard, a conservatory capable of year-long vegetable production. Maybe expand to foul and fish.
The ayahuasca thing in South America. Or the ashram thing in India. Or at least a weekend-long Buddhist-lite silent retreat somewhere on the post-hippy west coast.
Take a massive, country-crossing road trip. Bang unannounced on all of your doors and yell: “What the hell happened? What the hell happened?”
Bike the old Pan-American Highway, from Route 81 here outside of Sioux Falls to the tip of Tierra Del Fuego. It’s all downhill heading south, yeah?
Start a female-fronted Neil Young cover band. Dye her red. Call it “Cinnamon Girl.”
Get an MFA from Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.
Start an Iggy Pop cover band. Call it “Raw Power.” I’d rather just play guitar, but will submit to loosing ten pounds and doing my best wrinkled Iggy if y’all ain’t up for it.
Get abs.
Build or renovate a totally sweet modern home, a house perched on a cliff that gazes upon the cold wave-crashed sea-coast with glass eyes. A fortress of solitude where we shall sip libations and write memoirs. We will wear turtlenecks.
Start a one-song cover band called “Crimson and Clover.” That’s it. We play “Crimson and Clover” for 42 minutes, round and round, over and over.
Take a swing at local politics and luck my way up to state-level office. Observe sausage-making, make notes for novel.
Thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. Or the Continental Trail. Or both.
Do that tattoo with the Gary Snyder quote. “In the shadow of bluffs…”
