An Ending, A Garden
After handing in my thesis—with two signatures, at last—I slept.
The next day I rummaged in the basement of my apartment building, found a hoe, and began hacking at the weeds in the garden. I did not want to see people; I could not bear the labor of making language.
I am sick on words: abstract words, poetic words, argumentative words, words quoted from that second wave film finally tracked down in a different state library system, transition words, paraphrased words, words counted for linguistic analysis, attributed words, big words, small words, wrong words, right words, all words. I hacked in the garden for two days, until the last root was up.
Then I went on Amazon and ordered 60 pounds of organic chicken shit for this soil, and went back to bed.