This is a rewrite of something I first posted on another bulletin board called "Cynical Observations From An Old Curmudgeon"
"Well I won't pretend to know much about humpback whales but let's see if we can't focus more attention and more money--money the state of California doesn't have-- on a problem that maybe didn't need a solution after all?
Actually I don’t know anything about Humpbacks... I guess I want to know why any creature supposedly as smart as whales are --would go up the Sacramento Delta given the conditions there lately? Are our oceans going downhill as well--or is it the kind of morbid curiosity that has rubberneckers gawking at a grisly auto accident? Charles Darwin apparently did not include rubbernecking Humpbacks in his "survival of the fittest" scenario... Maybe just maybe these whales can kinda figure it out on their own--and we should just leave them be--or are these people—the desk jockeys that issue memos all day instead of dealing with the sorry state of California’s wildlife--admitting the Delta is that screwed up?
We collectively are sometimes so easily manipulated by the press and the "powers that be". Individually there are a few people that still know to read between the dotted lines and look at the fine print... For the rest--it’s the "cute and cuddly syndrome" or something like that. It's that "Aw shucks moment" that sells thousands of Hallmark cards, bumper stickers and wins at least 2/3 of every election--a vote getter if I ever saw one! Here come the platitudes and maudlin sentimentality. Once you start tugging at the heart strings, a lot of folks just roll over. Sheeet...if you could convince them buying a Hummer would end the struggles in the Sudan and save starvin' babies, some folks would rush right out and do so--even if gas hits $4.25 a gallon.We are in deep doo doo with state and federal budget deficits. I bring this up because the California Department of Fish and Game (DFG) is going to take it in the shorts. You think ANYBODY is going to take serious steps to address that deficit? Nah...we will get more "rosy projections" from the governor--and more draconian budget cuts—but somehow they have money to rescue dumb whales that didn’t need rescuing after all. Anyways, I get the feeling someone is—or should be --asking what all that extra Coast Guard (and others) time is costing us? Meanwhile we can't give Fish and Game wardens a decent wage? Go figure.
Didn't I say or post something about just leaving the whales ALONE and letting Nature do what it does best--earlier? So the whales have found their way out of the delta…on their own and under the cover of nightfall. Is there a message in there for us and our somewhat feeble “rescue efforts”?
I never did get whale watching anyways??? Now submarine races-- theres a real spectator sport for the folks that are dissatisfied with Gameboy or Wii. ;-) I think the real problem is that peoples lives have both become so sterile and so empty. It’s” plastic mall land”, neon lit and garish-- and divorced from anything “real”. The commute grind grinds away at our collective souls, a situation made worse when we are compelled to live in a tract, in a neighborhood that didn’t exist 10 years ago… A whale, something so far removed from our day to day reality becomes a welcome diversion.
So...I went fishing--on a holiday weekend. Actually I got there--Thursday-- before most of the crowds, hooked a bunch of fish (which means the fishing was pretty good) thereby insuring that the people who showed up late on Saturday were, at best, getting leftovers and sulking fish. I should be sitting here kind of happily contented, maybe a little smug. Instead I'm scratching my head. The first thing I saw—the first bummer-- was a bonafide moron--or group of morons--who packed up early AND LEFT THEIR CAMPFIRE BURNING!!! Oh yeah--they cleared out--weren't coming back-- and flames were licking at the top of the fire pit when I came by. Darwin--where were you when these folks parents were toying with the idea of reproducing??? I was boiling over, seeing this kind of stupidity up close and personal and well, I guess it was a good thing I don't know who those folks were 'cause I would be saying things that might escalate the situation!!! How careless--how thoughtless was this? Well…it’s been exceptionally dry this year—tinder dry in places-- AND the wind had been kicking up every afternoon! I stomped out what I could--felts are cheap compared to losing one of California's premier fisheries--and asked a group of young fellows in the next camp if they could throw some water on it just to be doubly sure... This hits too close to home: Numerous California watersheds and the beautiful streams that flow though them have been damaged by wildfires. The Fountain fire burned 88,000 acres, destroying at least one lesser known stream and it threatened Hat Creek. The Blue Lake fire did an incredible amount of damage and came close to destroying one very secret and very pristine spring creek.
Young folks are just that--young--and they seemed nice enough-- but umm… second bummer of the weekend: I'm not driving slow because I'm a geriatric case. You should see me on my motorcycle--unless you plan on pulling me over! At 65 mph I feel like I’m in a school zone… I drive slow because I'm thinking about the other campers--and folks on the dirt road behind me. Oh yeah-- it also improves fuel economy. Anyways these "speed demons" were kicking up clouds of dust that were choking the other campers! Next time think about the "other folks"--and slow it down a little. I mean I was impressed your gas guzzling SUVs can handle dirt roads at those kinds of speeds (not) but did you notice the Dogwood and Rhododendron in full bloom? Slow it down, cut the dust and enjoy the view. You can work on your ulcers and stress elsewhere...
All in all a beautiful weekend to be out inspite of a few thoughtless people. More snakes than I've ever seen and a few bigger than usual snakes. One rattler gave me fair warning so I steered clear of it and the snake steered clear of me! That's maybe another reason to slow it down just a little: You might want to be real sure where you are putting your feet and hands in snake country...
You can generally ignore a lot of "fish reports" as a rule: The bite that was wide open earlier in the month has "changed". Translation: "You should have been here yesterday..." Seriously, the sun was out in earnest and that had fish going deeper earlier in the day! Earlier posted fish reports had every conceivable fly pattern working--especially dry fly patterns. That is an early season phenomena and it is apparently already over! I suppose more experienced anglers figured that out (the connection between the depth we fish at and temperature and light intensity) a long long time ago but I saw more than one person (who should have known better) not fishing nearly deep enough! Speaking of that, if you do use a big dry fly as a dropper, plan on going through a mile of tippet as you adjust how deep your bottom flies are--unless of course you aren't really serious about "catching". The river bottom is so different from spot to spot so how can someone just tie on a dropper AND NEVER THINK ABOUT CHANGING THE DEPTH OF THOSE FLIES AS THEY MOVE FROM SPOT TO SPOT??? (it happens) I'm getting to be a lazy old fart when it comes to fishing and if I HAVE to fish an indicator, it sure makes sense to use something that I can cast AND adjust (easily) for changing depth! Of course there are those people who do have a knack for finding about the worst spot to fish and then they park themselves there for what seems like a day and a half so they don't ever need to worry about changing anything other than flies in the desperate hope that somehow things will "improve".
I still haven't mentioned where I was fishing but there have been little clues here and there. Keep it to yourself if you do figure it out. Most of our rivers don't need MORE angling pressure... Meanwhile this thing about indicators: I personally don't care for them. It's not that any one technique is "superior" regardless of what the pundits are saying in print (it does seem that we have become a nation of instant experts to be quoted on talk radio and in countless sound bites) Oh yeah let's have more hype about Czech nymphing... I mean I always thought that was the way "high sticking" was supposed to be done--and I recall reading somewhere about the Celts and Scots fishing a brace of flies and using the various flies to create skittering and other "action" or movement. So much for obsessing about the perfect dead drift. Anyways it seems like technique-- any technique--is like vocabulary or an arsenal and the more "tools" you have in your arsenal, the more effective you will be as an angler or in the case of "vocabulary" the more effective you will be in sharing ideas. I guess if there is a key to this flyfishing thing, it's knowing when to use a particular technique or tool...
I digress. I don't care for indicators because I think the dry fly cast, the line unfettered by lead and fluff and other contrivances, the rod unloading and the line folding gracefully over itself is pure poetry. Aside from the poetry, there is something to seeing --TO SEEING--a fish boil up under a fly and sip it inhale it. I see this shape materialize out of nowhere--and almost always when I least expect it (you'd assume I would be reading the water better?) My heart skips a beat everytime and early season I am constantly yanking the fly away from the fish. It's an adrenalin rush that I personally just don't get when staring at an indicator that looks more like a troll doll. That's just a personal thing--and I don't always get what I want so I fish the technique that either is going to be the most effective or if I am feeling especially lazy, the most enjoyable.
Short version--and another clue: In the pocket water we were fishing, indicators were about as useless as an opinion poll about healthy eating taken in a fast food chain. Again just my opinion but I do enjoy a certain amount of indicator-free nymphing. I do love the way it hones a persons reflexes and forces them to look at the water and to follow the line. I play with the depth at which I'm fishing and sometimes I try to impart the tiniest bit of life to a fly. Think of it as a subtle variation on the "Liesering Lift". What a thrill it is--okay maybe just more of a challenge--to figure where every rock and every snag in a run is, and to scrape the algae off those rocks without every hanging up. Of course if you really did make mental notes about the water, you saw the current speed was just right and the depth "just so" and accordingly every-- well almost every-- rock hid a fish... "
The key this weekend and maybe every weekend was to look for water that is deep enough to offer cover to a fish and yet is "overlooked" by other anglers. That included some pretty aggressive wading (near death experiences) but it had me on fish the entire weekend--regardless of how many other people came and went. The better the "cover"--the bigger the fish it held! Anyways, water "color" is almost always your best clue as to how deep a particular slot is! Do pay attention to what you are walking on: It seemed like some trout were still in spawning mode and the rocks were covered with cased caddis that were in no hurry to get out of the way!
Daytime hatches are now (or at least that weekend) pretty thin. It's starting to get too warm but the fish will still take a well presented nymph assuming--as noted above--that you are fishing it deep enough! The evening rises are spectacular right now--even though the river is not noted for rising fish. I think most people fear for their lives trying to wade in that water in failing light or scramble their way up the cliffs and back down the trail so they are off the water far too early. There are however a few spots that can be waded safely right up to the last legal light and allow you to get back to camp--safely!
Lots and lots of stoneflies including both Golden Stones and Salmonflies--and Little Brown Stones and Little Black Stones. If you do get up there in the next week or two, look for some of these stoneflies to finally be returning to the water to lay their eggs. Anything that looked like a stonefly nymph was going to catch fish--unless someone had been there before you. In that case you had to fish very small patterns with near perfect technique--and the fish were being a lot more selective. The evening rise was dominated by the Pale Evening Duns. Keep in mind this bug is about a hook size larger than the Pale Morning Dun and a slightly paler color. It's a fast water bug so your fishing is probably going to be concentrated at the heads of the pools and the best slots.
We ate and drank like royalty --with far too much red meat (numerous Tri-tips)and hearty red wine. One of the group is a prize winning home winemaker so he positively spoiled us. Deli ham (from Angelos up here in wine country) for lunch on a whole grain bread with a well aged New Zealand cheddar. Good company and some lively conversations. You can't ask for much more!
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Letters from Texas
(this is another older piece sometimes subtitled "Letters From Across the Cultural Divide)
I’m writing fromTexas, Houston to be more exact and there is a glimmer of understanding and some sort of insight as to how George W Bush was foisted upon us… It’s a strange state both in a physical sense as well as a mental state--a state of being and non being. Texas is an enigma and understanding that will bring one closer to understanding how this current administration has perhaps come to and stayed in power. Take a minute to look at Texas origins from it’s dubious standoff at the Alamo, cowboy roots and boom days as a one time major oil producer. Long before liberals vented about the Gulf of Tonkin incident, Texans gave us the Alamo. Just who were these heroic Texans fighting off at the Alamo? Revisionist history offers us multiple perspectives but it seems the land was somewhat dishonestly "liberated" from Mexico...and it's been one scam after another ever since.
I pick up the Houston Chronicle and it reads like a cross between Pulp Fiction and the National Enquirer. I’m not quite sure if it’s a gritty violent city, fraying around the edges or if this is the ultimate in yellow journalism. This much I do know: The city has a hard scrabble feel to it with tar paper shacks and rundown homes ringing the downtown area, reminiscent of tobacco alley; and the oil fields represented a boom and bust mentality whose collapse seems to have taken the heart out of the city. Each day there is another story of malfeasance, corruption and incompetence making headlines; and each day a jaded population, a population seemingly without hope whose dreams have been dashed and are as dry as the abandoned wells that dot the landscape, shrugs each story off with a naive belief in a benevolent god or a sense and sigh of resignation because these are the same scoundrels in the news that sold snake oil elixirs and rotgut whiskey to indigenous peoples generations earlier. The fraud, the shady dealings and subsequent collapse of Enron is only one of many equally sordid tales.
This mornings paper opens with a story about air quality in the region which is the ultimate oxymoron: on bad days the air clings to you like a cellophane wrap, acrid and stinging. This is not the photochemical smog of the Los Angeles Basin; it is tainted with benzene and 1,3-butadiene and the stench of refinery operations. The poor, the elderly and the disenfranchised live closest and downwind of the refineries. Nor is this cowboy country although a few play at pretend cowboy. This is oil country turned suburban with a few roughnecks here and there. Thick stands of Southern pine and Oaks once dotted what is --or once was-almost bayou country. It seems there is water in every low spot and gully with tremendous storms sweeping in off the gulf. The water is still there but the trees are being cleared and the land is denuded. "Cleared" is not the right word--slash and burn is a more apt description...or defoliated in something that resembles that resembles the widespread use of Agent Orange in Southeast Asia. This is another wonderful irony: subdivisions have names like the Woodlands and street names such as Camden Forest but every tree in sight has been mowed down to build... Each new subdivision is an ugly scar on the land--a gaping clear cut and a wound that won't heal; and they spring up like a pestilence.
There is a downtown and this is one of the largest cities in the United States but it seems more a monument to the people that sell concrete, to the contractors that could influence planners and to some of the worst traffic engineering I have ever seen. Towering overpasses lead to nowhere and then turn back, looping on themselves in a eerie aerial ballet. A mile and a half later I am still on some sort of on ramp and watching traffic move in every which direction except for the one that seems most logical. Of course if you sell concrete or profit from this sort of boondoggle, it is starkly beautiful and shoppers are trapped in some sort of retail purgatory as they attempt to get from mall to mall. One has to experience this in person to appreciate the unearthly and haunting beauty of this dance of poured concrete. Pillars loom pale white and today the air has been cleansed by a squall, creating and redefining this sculptural tableau. A passing thought-is there any way I can capture the surreal-ness of this on film without creating a traffic nightmare or spending the night in jail? As I drive--nay hurtle--down the roadway I am also distracted by an older section of freeway propped up on rusted metal girders and I-beams and I find myself thinking that maybe this isn't all that much older--that the condition of this section of the roadway might have something to do with the air quality...
This is not to say there aren't moments of beauty and redemption. Wildflowers pop up where they can. I think they are Black-eyed Susans, Milkmaids and Indian Baintbrush. I'm not sure what this area might have looked like before the Anglos began their bloodletting on the landscape--perhaps bayou country with trees dripping Spanish Moss painted cool gray and sage but the few flowers showing themselves speak to me of hope, optimism and an enduring nature. Sometimes I catch myself fast forwarding my thought processes and wondering how quickly Mother Nature might reclaim this land and accordingly I find a bright spot amidst the urban decay and detritus of civilization. Decay provides an opening for rebirth and regeneration. Decay in whatever form is compost for some other--and hopefully higher purpose. The homeless sleeping under freeway overpasses only re-affirm my dire interpretation of the direction we are headed in politically and as a society. We have lost our way and our will. However, for every ill-mannered, racist and unemployed oil field worker amidst the grit and squalor and the maze of tract homes I also meet some of the warmest, friendliest people albeit somewhat "simple" according to my jaded West Coast and somewhat "urbane" world view. They find solace in their religion and embody a generosity of spirit that I see in few other places.
This is important because I am here to help my mother and stepfather through a bout with cancer and a knee replacement. My mothers artificial knee will work as designed although it is a relatively difficult and painful procedure but the prognosis for the stepfather is grim--at best. He has smoked for 50 years and sometimes as many as 3 packs a day and cancer coursed through his body undetected until recently. It would have perhaps remained undetected until the bitter end had he not started getting lost in the most unlikely places. His wife--my mother-- was living in dread fear of Alzhiemers or dementia and insisted that he be tested and tested again. Routine physicals had failed to turn up anything until a CAT scan revealed an enormous tumour on the brain at which point the family physician began looking at other parts of his body in an effort to see if the cancer had spread or where it had started. 3 packs a day...was there ever any question?
The cancer ward is an experience in itself. At first glance it seems to be overflowing with bodies ravaged by tobacco. Gravelly voices betray a lifetime of smoking although the oxygen bottles and wheezing might provide a clue as well... Meanwhile it's too late to experience regret or remorse. We all were invincible in our youth and at that age there is little wisdom we can offer until each of us comes face to face with our own mortality. Accordingly there is an atmosphere of resignation lit around the edges with the faintest rays of hope. There is an easy grace to the room and an aura of peace. They have gambled with fate and their lives, challenged medical science, tested actuarial tables and apparently--have lost. Therefore the patients in the clinic, for the most part accept their role in their own abbreviated lives.
The people in the clinic fascinate me. Some of it is morbid curiosity. I want to hear their stories in all their gory details and in a bizarre homage to Van Gogh, I also want to see their scars. I want to tell their stories and despite the fact that it seems most Texans are permanently attached to a cigarette, there are other patients with other types of cancer. The skin cancers and the brain cancers seem to shout out "Look at me--if you can..." The scars from repeated surgeries leave a road map of wasted lives, devastation and struggle sometimes tattooed across the skull or face. I can't help but admire these peoples bravery, facing a relentless adversary that if left unchecked will slowly eat away at them. God help the vain and the shallow whose measure of their net worth or the worth of another is only skin deep. The scars also tell a story of incredible pain--and in some cases--of more to come. There are two men missing what seems to my untrained eye enormous “chunks” of their heads. Bright pink and purple scars outline the missing portions and the top of one mans head reads like a badly done topographical model: “This depression is where the artificial lake will go-- behind the golf course and country club...”and for a split second I wonder what it is like to be them. I have had a hard enough time just accepting the fact that I am now “middle aged”. Repeat after me: “I want to live so badly that I am willing to have enormous sections of my body slowly carved away.”...
Most of the time I THINK I feel their pain but of course it is so much easier to resign yourself to someone else’s fate. It is the youngest women in the clinic that tweak the edges of empathy and pull at the heart strings that hurt me the most though. I am sorry to be so blunt and even selfish but we aged individuals have for the most part led good lives--or at least had the opportunity. My own life has not been lived according to the mantra of “What if?” or “I should have...” and accordingly I personally have few regrets. My death, whenever and however it comes, is another adventure in a life that has been what an older generation referred to as an “E ticket”--a wild ride. Meanwhile there is a young woman, a very attractive brunette with doe like eyes and a head of thick hair and it hurts to even acknowledge her. Her face, her countenance is both radiant and pained, even annoyed but it is the hurt and the confusion in her eyes that is so hard to bear. Every patient except perhaps for the heavy smokers will ask at one point “Why me?” and the answer is and will always be ”Why not?” but I cannot be so jaded and callous as to tell her this. Somehow I want to take the hurt and the confusion away but I am not sure that I have the tools or the skills, much less the emotional strength.
Smoking itself fascinates me as I catch myself wondering about addiction and self destructive behavior. Pardon my bias but you--smoker-- stink and it's the bitter smell of stale ashtrays while the walls are sticky with layers of tar and nicotine. It's the stench of last night and countless other nights overflowing the ashtray; butts sitting in an equally stale drink now tea colored. Can you taste food anymore or are your tastebuds completely gone? This is important only to me: in the pursuit of my own very hedonistic life I treasure texture and taste. Just the same, I think I know what it is to self medicate and to struggle with addiction so I keep my opinions to myself; and I can't help but stare at the patient disconnecting the oxygen bottle to sneak a quick cigarette. It's a prop, a security blanket, a nervous habit and a fix that extracts a heavy toll.
There is a young waitress, too young--working in a sad cafe, the kind of place that no matter how hard they try the food will always be rubbery and most of the booths will sit empty. Everything about her shouts out dysfunction--not that it's a badge people wear; and unleashing my prejudices it's not hard to imagine her pregnant with her fourth child all too soon. She too has a look in her eyes --pleading, wanting someone--me perhaps to take her away from this place. Were I less ethical I would perhaps prey upon that vulnerability but it is her mouth that diverts my attention. It has been a long time since I have seen teeth that tobacco stained and crooked-- and it seems so out of place in this day and age. I can't get that out of my head and this image, this theme replays itself--that of an angel fallen from grace, an angel descended from Applalachia doomed to a meager existence in a trailer park or manufactured home.
So now I am flying back to Texas again-- this time to bury my stepfather. Delicious irony that I am on a flight that sometimes seems right out of the twilight zone. At any minute I expect to see a short Mayan woman boarding the plane with a wooden cage full of chickens. No smoking is allowed in the friendly skies of the imagination but we make exception for the practice of Santeria and the bathrooms will be filled with milagros... Standing next to me is a Diane Feinstien (Californias fossilized senior senator) look alike and if her hair was pulled back any tighter I think her forehead would tear. I'm not sure if that look on her face is grim determination or years of bible belt upbringing... but I enjoy the spectacle of passing bodies further refining my lifelong study of body types and body language --and making up stories to fill in whatever blanks. Earlier, at the coffee counter was a “princess wanna-be“. She oozed refinement, breeding even and perhaps even a priviledged background ,but her posture, her slouch tells me her lot in life has not been easy. Maybe she is just self conscious about her breasts-- which she seems to be trying to hide...
Once I am on the plane I inventory the crew out of habit. It's been a while but here is the first stewardess I've seen that would actually qualify as attractive. Her anorexic co worker, however apparently had a bit part in the remake of the "Night of the Living Dead". The pancake make-up and the harsh light of high elevations does not improve her look. Meanwhile the pretty one even smiles. Does that mean we have crossed into some sort of international airspace where happiness is not determined by capricious boundaries such as red state blue state? Interestingly enough my own obsession with breasts draws my attention to the fact that the zombie stewardess doesn't have any breasts either-- and I spiral away, lost in thought and debating with myself which came first: the chicken or the egg? Earlier in the lobby something --someone-- annoyed me and I let loose. I let loose, as in releasing a gaseous flatulent cloud hoping to foul the airspace of whatever it was that annoyed me --or whomever’s--only to realize that the most stunning, attractively put together woman is walking behind me. "Put together" hints at my own misgivings: she could very well add new meanings to “high maintenance". I am momentarily embarrassed, but in doing a quick reality check, I remember that at my age I am invisible to women of her age. Just the same, I look for a dog or a “more senior” citizen to pin the blame on... and I have just added another dimension to “passive aggressive“.
I’m writing fromTexas, Houston to be more exact and there is a glimmer of understanding and some sort of insight as to how George W Bush was foisted upon us… It’s a strange state both in a physical sense as well as a mental state--a state of being and non being. Texas is an enigma and understanding that will bring one closer to understanding how this current administration has perhaps come to and stayed in power. Take a minute to look at Texas origins from it’s dubious standoff at the Alamo, cowboy roots and boom days as a one time major oil producer. Long before liberals vented about the Gulf of Tonkin incident, Texans gave us the Alamo. Just who were these heroic Texans fighting off at the Alamo? Revisionist history offers us multiple perspectives but it seems the land was somewhat dishonestly "liberated" from Mexico...and it's been one scam after another ever since.
I pick up the Houston Chronicle and it reads like a cross between Pulp Fiction and the National Enquirer. I’m not quite sure if it’s a gritty violent city, fraying around the edges or if this is the ultimate in yellow journalism. This much I do know: The city has a hard scrabble feel to it with tar paper shacks and rundown homes ringing the downtown area, reminiscent of tobacco alley; and the oil fields represented a boom and bust mentality whose collapse seems to have taken the heart out of the city. Each day there is another story of malfeasance, corruption and incompetence making headlines; and each day a jaded population, a population seemingly without hope whose dreams have been dashed and are as dry as the abandoned wells that dot the landscape, shrugs each story off with a naive belief in a benevolent god or a sense and sigh of resignation because these are the same scoundrels in the news that sold snake oil elixirs and rotgut whiskey to indigenous peoples generations earlier. The fraud, the shady dealings and subsequent collapse of Enron is only one of many equally sordid tales.
This mornings paper opens with a story about air quality in the region which is the ultimate oxymoron: on bad days the air clings to you like a cellophane wrap, acrid and stinging. This is not the photochemical smog of the Los Angeles Basin; it is tainted with benzene and 1,3-butadiene and the stench of refinery operations. The poor, the elderly and the disenfranchised live closest and downwind of the refineries. Nor is this cowboy country although a few play at pretend cowboy. This is oil country turned suburban with a few roughnecks here and there. Thick stands of Southern pine and Oaks once dotted what is --or once was-almost bayou country. It seems there is water in every low spot and gully with tremendous storms sweeping in off the gulf. The water is still there but the trees are being cleared and the land is denuded. "Cleared" is not the right word--slash and burn is a more apt description...or defoliated in something that resembles that resembles the widespread use of Agent Orange in Southeast Asia. This is another wonderful irony: subdivisions have names like the Woodlands and street names such as Camden Forest but every tree in sight has been mowed down to build... Each new subdivision is an ugly scar on the land--a gaping clear cut and a wound that won't heal; and they spring up like a pestilence.
There is a downtown and this is one of the largest cities in the United States but it seems more a monument to the people that sell concrete, to the contractors that could influence planners and to some of the worst traffic engineering I have ever seen. Towering overpasses lead to nowhere and then turn back, looping on themselves in a eerie aerial ballet. A mile and a half later I am still on some sort of on ramp and watching traffic move in every which direction except for the one that seems most logical. Of course if you sell concrete or profit from this sort of boondoggle, it is starkly beautiful and shoppers are trapped in some sort of retail purgatory as they attempt to get from mall to mall. One has to experience this in person to appreciate the unearthly and haunting beauty of this dance of poured concrete. Pillars loom pale white and today the air has been cleansed by a squall, creating and redefining this sculptural tableau. A passing thought-is there any way I can capture the surreal-ness of this on film without creating a traffic nightmare or spending the night in jail? As I drive--nay hurtle--down the roadway I am also distracted by an older section of freeway propped up on rusted metal girders and I-beams and I find myself thinking that maybe this isn't all that much older--that the condition of this section of the roadway might have something to do with the air quality...
This is not to say there aren't moments of beauty and redemption. Wildflowers pop up where they can. I think they are Black-eyed Susans, Milkmaids and Indian Baintbrush. I'm not sure what this area might have looked like before the Anglos began their bloodletting on the landscape--perhaps bayou country with trees dripping Spanish Moss painted cool gray and sage but the few flowers showing themselves speak to me of hope, optimism and an enduring nature. Sometimes I catch myself fast forwarding my thought processes and wondering how quickly Mother Nature might reclaim this land and accordingly I find a bright spot amidst the urban decay and detritus of civilization. Decay provides an opening for rebirth and regeneration. Decay in whatever form is compost for some other--and hopefully higher purpose. The homeless sleeping under freeway overpasses only re-affirm my dire interpretation of the direction we are headed in politically and as a society. We have lost our way and our will. However, for every ill-mannered, racist and unemployed oil field worker amidst the grit and squalor and the maze of tract homes I also meet some of the warmest, friendliest people albeit somewhat "simple" according to my jaded West Coast and somewhat "urbane" world view. They find solace in their religion and embody a generosity of spirit that I see in few other places.
This is important because I am here to help my mother and stepfather through a bout with cancer and a knee replacement. My mothers artificial knee will work as designed although it is a relatively difficult and painful procedure but the prognosis for the stepfather is grim--at best. He has smoked for 50 years and sometimes as many as 3 packs a day and cancer coursed through his body undetected until recently. It would have perhaps remained undetected until the bitter end had he not started getting lost in the most unlikely places. His wife--my mother-- was living in dread fear of Alzhiemers or dementia and insisted that he be tested and tested again. Routine physicals had failed to turn up anything until a CAT scan revealed an enormous tumour on the brain at which point the family physician began looking at other parts of his body in an effort to see if the cancer had spread or where it had started. 3 packs a day...was there ever any question?
The cancer ward is an experience in itself. At first glance it seems to be overflowing with bodies ravaged by tobacco. Gravelly voices betray a lifetime of smoking although the oxygen bottles and wheezing might provide a clue as well... Meanwhile it's too late to experience regret or remorse. We all were invincible in our youth and at that age there is little wisdom we can offer until each of us comes face to face with our own mortality. Accordingly there is an atmosphere of resignation lit around the edges with the faintest rays of hope. There is an easy grace to the room and an aura of peace. They have gambled with fate and their lives, challenged medical science, tested actuarial tables and apparently--have lost. Therefore the patients in the clinic, for the most part accept their role in their own abbreviated lives.
The people in the clinic fascinate me. Some of it is morbid curiosity. I want to hear their stories in all their gory details and in a bizarre homage to Van Gogh, I also want to see their scars. I want to tell their stories and despite the fact that it seems most Texans are permanently attached to a cigarette, there are other patients with other types of cancer. The skin cancers and the brain cancers seem to shout out "Look at me--if you can..." The scars from repeated surgeries leave a road map of wasted lives, devastation and struggle sometimes tattooed across the skull or face. I can't help but admire these peoples bravery, facing a relentless adversary that if left unchecked will slowly eat away at them. God help the vain and the shallow whose measure of their net worth or the worth of another is only skin deep. The scars also tell a story of incredible pain--and in some cases--of more to come. There are two men missing what seems to my untrained eye enormous “chunks” of their heads. Bright pink and purple scars outline the missing portions and the top of one mans head reads like a badly done topographical model: “This depression is where the artificial lake will go-- behind the golf course and country club...”and for a split second I wonder what it is like to be them. I have had a hard enough time just accepting the fact that I am now “middle aged”. Repeat after me: “I want to live so badly that I am willing to have enormous sections of my body slowly carved away.”...
Most of the time I THINK I feel their pain but of course it is so much easier to resign yourself to someone else’s fate. It is the youngest women in the clinic that tweak the edges of empathy and pull at the heart strings that hurt me the most though. I am sorry to be so blunt and even selfish but we aged individuals have for the most part led good lives--or at least had the opportunity. My own life has not been lived according to the mantra of “What if?” or “I should have...” and accordingly I personally have few regrets. My death, whenever and however it comes, is another adventure in a life that has been what an older generation referred to as an “E ticket”--a wild ride. Meanwhile there is a young woman, a very attractive brunette with doe like eyes and a head of thick hair and it hurts to even acknowledge her. Her face, her countenance is both radiant and pained, even annoyed but it is the hurt and the confusion in her eyes that is so hard to bear. Every patient except perhaps for the heavy smokers will ask at one point “Why me?” and the answer is and will always be ”Why not?” but I cannot be so jaded and callous as to tell her this. Somehow I want to take the hurt and the confusion away but I am not sure that I have the tools or the skills, much less the emotional strength.
Smoking itself fascinates me as I catch myself wondering about addiction and self destructive behavior. Pardon my bias but you--smoker-- stink and it's the bitter smell of stale ashtrays while the walls are sticky with layers of tar and nicotine. It's the stench of last night and countless other nights overflowing the ashtray; butts sitting in an equally stale drink now tea colored. Can you taste food anymore or are your tastebuds completely gone? This is important only to me: in the pursuit of my own very hedonistic life I treasure texture and taste. Just the same, I think I know what it is to self medicate and to struggle with addiction so I keep my opinions to myself; and I can't help but stare at the patient disconnecting the oxygen bottle to sneak a quick cigarette. It's a prop, a security blanket, a nervous habit and a fix that extracts a heavy toll.
There is a young waitress, too young--working in a sad cafe, the kind of place that no matter how hard they try the food will always be rubbery and most of the booths will sit empty. Everything about her shouts out dysfunction--not that it's a badge people wear; and unleashing my prejudices it's not hard to imagine her pregnant with her fourth child all too soon. She too has a look in her eyes --pleading, wanting someone--me perhaps to take her away from this place. Were I less ethical I would perhaps prey upon that vulnerability but it is her mouth that diverts my attention. It has been a long time since I have seen teeth that tobacco stained and crooked-- and it seems so out of place in this day and age. I can't get that out of my head and this image, this theme replays itself--that of an angel fallen from grace, an angel descended from Applalachia doomed to a meager existence in a trailer park or manufactured home.
So now I am flying back to Texas again-- this time to bury my stepfather. Delicious irony that I am on a flight that sometimes seems right out of the twilight zone. At any minute I expect to see a short Mayan woman boarding the plane with a wooden cage full of chickens. No smoking is allowed in the friendly skies of the imagination but we make exception for the practice of Santeria and the bathrooms will be filled with milagros... Standing next to me is a Diane Feinstien (Californias fossilized senior senator) look alike and if her hair was pulled back any tighter I think her forehead would tear. I'm not sure if that look on her face is grim determination or years of bible belt upbringing... but I enjoy the spectacle of passing bodies further refining my lifelong study of body types and body language --and making up stories to fill in whatever blanks. Earlier, at the coffee counter was a “princess wanna-be“. She oozed refinement, breeding even and perhaps even a priviledged background ,but her posture, her slouch tells me her lot in life has not been easy. Maybe she is just self conscious about her breasts-- which she seems to be trying to hide...
Once I am on the plane I inventory the crew out of habit. It's been a while but here is the first stewardess I've seen that would actually qualify as attractive. Her anorexic co worker, however apparently had a bit part in the remake of the "Night of the Living Dead". The pancake make-up and the harsh light of high elevations does not improve her look. Meanwhile the pretty one even smiles. Does that mean we have crossed into some sort of international airspace where happiness is not determined by capricious boundaries such as red state blue state? Interestingly enough my own obsession with breasts draws my attention to the fact that the zombie stewardess doesn't have any breasts either-- and I spiral away, lost in thought and debating with myself which came first: the chicken or the egg? Earlier in the lobby something --someone-- annoyed me and I let loose. I let loose, as in releasing a gaseous flatulent cloud hoping to foul the airspace of whatever it was that annoyed me --or whomever’s--only to realize that the most stunning, attractively put together woman is walking behind me. "Put together" hints at my own misgivings: she could very well add new meanings to “high maintenance". I am momentarily embarrassed, but in doing a quick reality check, I remember that at my age I am invisible to women of her age. Just the same, I look for a dog or a “more senior” citizen to pin the blame on... and I have just added another dimension to “passive aggressive“.
And God Smiled... (Sacramento River "Report")
(this is an older piece previously published on an Internet FF board that really sucks nowadays)
No--skirt has not suddenly found redemption or salvation unless it is the sweet bend in a rod, line slicing through the water, muscled rainbows pouncing on caddis fished in the surface. I just couldn't think of a way or words that describe my most recent float down the Sacramento. Far from it. Old tunes from Lou Reed playing over and over in my head as I reminisce, Pale Blue Eyes, Perfect Day, Sweet Jane. Sitting back with a good smoke and a glass of wine, maybe a good cabernet 1987. This was the trip where everything goes as planned--like lovemaking where your clothes hit the floor, zippers magically unstuck and later when you have occasion to put your clothes back on--nary a wrinkle. 6 almost uninterrupted days of floating, Caddis every evening even with the howling wind and the highlight being this last trip with the girlfriend. She's using the "M" word again--got to think about that...
This latest float begins with a big breakfast. Bacon and eggs over easy with toast done on the skillet and black coffee. This is good. Most of the time I am floating I skip breakfast, grab a sweet roll or donut on the way out of town--that and the girlfriend is a health fanatic. Way too much wheat germ and tofu for me especially if I am going to be at the oars all day. Somehow I have talked her into the other white meat, pork without nitrates or antibiotics and the eggs come from cage free chickens. Made a special trip to Whole Foods in Santa Rosa. I must really want her to make this float with me... We loiter around the campsite while I tie a few flies. It's been such a mish mash, a pot pourri of insects on the water-- that I am not quite sure what to tie so I do a few of my old favorites, knock-offs, variations on Gary LaFontaine patterns. By the time we get to the launch it is breezy but manageable, especially compared to the howling wind we were fishing earlier in the week. Looks like a minor front is coming in but my favorite weatherman says clearing, stable with a warming trend. I'm hoping that is enough to get some real hatches going. The water seems colder than usual this year, it is a late spring and the curtain at Lake Shasta is working. In fact I've been sticking fish all along on Baetis and Stoneflies and I am seeing hatches and insects I've never seen in this part of the river. Tremendous numbers of Pteronarcys in some of the uppermost reaches of the river, Skwala lower down. The Brachycentrus, the Green Sedge and the Amniocentrus, the Weedy Water Sedge are noticeable absent so far. Copper Johns and small Pheasant Tails are sticking disproportionate numbers of fish. Something is working in our favor. Perhaps it is the break in the unsettled weather but the first place we drop anchor fish are rising. Immediately I get a couple of grabs--miss them but we pull anchor. It's an excellent slot but maybe beyond the girlfriends abilities so we head downstream. She is a good sport, a beginner but at times easily frustrated; and the next spot we stop at she is pouting and losing interest rapidly in trying to throw an indicator and shot into riffles bigger than anything she has ever fished before. Still, with some patient coaching and coaxing together we hook 4 more fish. Together...I am standing behind her, pointing out seams and trying to explain the vagaries of current and depth that make one spot better than another. Tactfully of course. The luxurious breakfast and flytying session also means that we got a very late start which means I end up passing up a number of slots and hardpan formations that I would normally fish. I pick a riffle that I think will be easy for her to fish and we drop anchor again. Too late--I've lost her. She is hiking down the bank. She is my soulmate--ignoring the "No Tresspassing" signs as she wanders off. So I have the riffle to myself. Fish are rising sporadically. Not bad...Wierd though...several good drifts later the fish are still ignoring my flies, still rising. I don't need to be hit in the head. It's a hard lesson that I've learned, seen many times before. The fish have keyed into emergers. They are virtually ignoring deaddrifted flies, looking for a little movement and grabbing the bug just as it hits the surface. Sure enough a fish grabs on the first cast with the new set up. Short strike which usually means the hook is in the fleshy part of the lip and it's gone after a few seconds. Then I stick a nice fish on my third cast. The girlfriend shows up in time to snap a few photos and she is revived now that we can fish dries. I promise her "dinner" after the next fish or 4 casts--whichever comes last--and hook 3,4 more fish in a matter of minutes. Still I have given her my word and I reel up my line and pull anchor again. One last longing look over my shoulder. Fish are still rising but she wants to sit under the big cottonwood she saw downstream for our streamside meal. My turn to pout. However I eke out a concession. She puts together a meal while I get to sneak in a few more casts and I hook 4 more fish. This is incredible. One or both of us has hooked up every place we have stopped so far. The late start continues to haunt us though. We linger over dinner, a glass or two of wine and now the sun is getting low in the sky. We jump in the boat and I am pulling hard at the oars. Pass a lot of great water. Remorse, wistfulness. I don't know when I will be able to get back. One more trick up my sleeve though. I've hit the evening rise 4 nights out of 5 and I am gambling that if I can find a good piece of water I will hit it again. I am looking for a particular type of bottom, waters' got to be a certain depth and current speed and the Hydropysches will be coming off and the fish will be rising. The Hydropysche is a net spinning Caddis. Filters or strains planktons and algaes out of the current. They do well in big tailwaters like the Sac but they also need a certain amount of current to keep their silken nets from collapsing--that and I've got some wierd theories about a comfortable "depth" for rising fish. Too deep--too much work; too shallow--too exposed and the fish get skittish. Anyways everything falls into place for about the umpteenth time and we hit the rise. Sporadic at first but soon fish are rising throughout the run. She's excited, Alex the Wonderdog is excited and I am working hard to put her on fish. In 45 minutes she has hooked probably a dozen fish and landed 3. I managed to sneak in a few casts inbetween coaching her and helping her land and unhook fish and we have double hook ups. It's wonderfully frenzied and she is having the time of her life. Time to call it a day though. The light is fading fast and I'd like to get off the water at a respectable hour or at least early enough to have greasy red meat, medium rare and formed into a circular patty on white bread at a nearby dive Monday is good too...for different reasons. We explore. Wetlands and vernal pools filled with Golddust and ringed with Amaryllis. Wildflowers that neither of us have seen before as well. A small pond whose inhabitants perform on cue. Frogs leaping off lily pads, bass lurking under the Ludwigia while turtles slide off the perches as we approach. There is an Osprey sitting above it's nest and we make out the fuzzy heads of 2 chicks peeking out. Later I tell her about the Bald Eagle I saw earlier in the week--the lazy one making the half hearted dive...
No--skirt has not suddenly found redemption or salvation unless it is the sweet bend in a rod, line slicing through the water, muscled rainbows pouncing on caddis fished in the surface. I just couldn't think of a way or words that describe my most recent float down the Sacramento. Far from it. Old tunes from Lou Reed playing over and over in my head as I reminisce, Pale Blue Eyes, Perfect Day, Sweet Jane. Sitting back with a good smoke and a glass of wine, maybe a good cabernet 1987. This was the trip where everything goes as planned--like lovemaking where your clothes hit the floor, zippers magically unstuck and later when you have occasion to put your clothes back on--nary a wrinkle. 6 almost uninterrupted days of floating, Caddis every evening even with the howling wind and the highlight being this last trip with the girlfriend. She's using the "M" word again--got to think about that...
This latest float begins with a big breakfast. Bacon and eggs over easy with toast done on the skillet and black coffee. This is good. Most of the time I am floating I skip breakfast, grab a sweet roll or donut on the way out of town--that and the girlfriend is a health fanatic. Way too much wheat germ and tofu for me especially if I am going to be at the oars all day. Somehow I have talked her into the other white meat, pork without nitrates or antibiotics and the eggs come from cage free chickens. Made a special trip to Whole Foods in Santa Rosa. I must really want her to make this float with me... We loiter around the campsite while I tie a few flies. It's been such a mish mash, a pot pourri of insects on the water-- that I am not quite sure what to tie so I do a few of my old favorites, knock-offs, variations on Gary LaFontaine patterns. By the time we get to the launch it is breezy but manageable, especially compared to the howling wind we were fishing earlier in the week. Looks like a minor front is coming in but my favorite weatherman says clearing, stable with a warming trend. I'm hoping that is enough to get some real hatches going. The water seems colder than usual this year, it is a late spring and the curtain at Lake Shasta is working. In fact I've been sticking fish all along on Baetis and Stoneflies and I am seeing hatches and insects I've never seen in this part of the river. Tremendous numbers of Pteronarcys in some of the uppermost reaches of the river, Skwala lower down. The Brachycentrus, the Green Sedge and the Amniocentrus, the Weedy Water Sedge are noticeable absent so far. Copper Johns and small Pheasant Tails are sticking disproportionate numbers of fish. Something is working in our favor. Perhaps it is the break in the unsettled weather but the first place we drop anchor fish are rising. Immediately I get a couple of grabs--miss them but we pull anchor. It's an excellent slot but maybe beyond the girlfriends abilities so we head downstream. She is a good sport, a beginner but at times easily frustrated; and the next spot we stop at she is pouting and losing interest rapidly in trying to throw an indicator and shot into riffles bigger than anything she has ever fished before. Still, with some patient coaching and coaxing together we hook 4 more fish. Together...I am standing behind her, pointing out seams and trying to explain the vagaries of current and depth that make one spot better than another. Tactfully of course. The luxurious breakfast and flytying session also means that we got a very late start which means I end up passing up a number of slots and hardpan formations that I would normally fish. I pick a riffle that I think will be easy for her to fish and we drop anchor again. Too late--I've lost her. She is hiking down the bank. She is my soulmate--ignoring the "No Tresspassing" signs as she wanders off. So I have the riffle to myself. Fish are rising sporadically. Not bad...Wierd though...several good drifts later the fish are still ignoring my flies, still rising. I don't need to be hit in the head. It's a hard lesson that I've learned, seen many times before. The fish have keyed into emergers. They are virtually ignoring deaddrifted flies, looking for a little movement and grabbing the bug just as it hits the surface. Sure enough a fish grabs on the first cast with the new set up. Short strike which usually means the hook is in the fleshy part of the lip and it's gone after a few seconds. Then I stick a nice fish on my third cast. The girlfriend shows up in time to snap a few photos and she is revived now that we can fish dries. I promise her "dinner" after the next fish or 4 casts--whichever comes last--and hook 3,4 more fish in a matter of minutes. Still I have given her my word and I reel up my line and pull anchor again. One last longing look over my shoulder. Fish are still rising but she wants to sit under the big cottonwood she saw downstream for our streamside meal. My turn to pout. However I eke out a concession. She puts together a meal while I get to sneak in a few more casts and I hook 4 more fish. This is incredible. One or both of us has hooked up every place we have stopped so far. The late start continues to haunt us though. We linger over dinner, a glass or two of wine and now the sun is getting low in the sky. We jump in the boat and I am pulling hard at the oars. Pass a lot of great water. Remorse, wistfulness. I don't know when I will be able to get back. One more trick up my sleeve though. I've hit the evening rise 4 nights out of 5 and I am gambling that if I can find a good piece of water I will hit it again. I am looking for a particular type of bottom, waters' got to be a certain depth and current speed and the Hydropysches will be coming off and the fish will be rising. The Hydropysche is a net spinning Caddis. Filters or strains planktons and algaes out of the current. They do well in big tailwaters like the Sac but they also need a certain amount of current to keep their silken nets from collapsing--that and I've got some wierd theories about a comfortable "depth" for rising fish. Too deep--too much work; too shallow--too exposed and the fish get skittish. Anyways everything falls into place for about the umpteenth time and we hit the rise. Sporadic at first but soon fish are rising throughout the run. She's excited, Alex the Wonderdog is excited and I am working hard to put her on fish. In 45 minutes she has hooked probably a dozen fish and landed 3. I managed to sneak in a few casts inbetween coaching her and helping her land and unhook fish and we have double hook ups. It's wonderfully frenzied and she is having the time of her life. Time to call it a day though. The light is fading fast and I'd like to get off the water at a respectable hour or at least early enough to have greasy red meat, medium rare and formed into a circular patty on white bread at a nearby dive Monday is good too...for different reasons. We explore. Wetlands and vernal pools filled with Golddust and ringed with Amaryllis. Wildflowers that neither of us have seen before as well. A small pond whose inhabitants perform on cue. Frogs leaping off lily pads, bass lurking under the Ludwigia while turtles slide off the perches as we approach. There is an Osprey sitting above it's nest and we make out the fuzzy heads of 2 chicks peeking out. Later I tell her about the Bald Eagle I saw earlier in the week--the lazy one making the half hearted dive...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
In the beginning God created turgid prose...
I stand up in front of God and man—it’s like a bad Alcoholics Anonymous or NA meeting--and I say with less than sincerity “I am an addict”. I am addicted to the play of words and ink on paper. I am addicted to the slow scrawl of text across a monitor and so I struggle to write. Instead I stare off into space, knowing that there was something I was supposed to do this afternoon. Once upon a time there was something I wanted to say—something I needed to say but I long ago stopped feeling. Meanwhile disjoint images play across my memory trying to shape themselves into some sort of coherent whole. Once upon a time I even had a life and now I am storm tossed --the detritus of human civilization washing up on a nameless beach upon which small children play, building sandcastles with minarets fashioned from the empty tube of a tampon applicator and a feather of an oil soaked bird. This is the wreckage of a life and the chaos left in my wake. Blown by the winds of fortune and misfortune alike I no longer try to make sense of my own existence and instead I wobble aimlessly about an axis I never had. I have also become the person I said I would never be…
I suppose I could define my life as a series of misadventures and missteps that I was somehow never held accountable for; and in doing so embellish tales of the ordinary into something far more fanciful. Ah but for this moment, the life I’ve lived in my imagination is far too wondrous: men nobler and lovers more numerous and more beautiful. In more grandiose moments I suppose I could even define my life by the women that have passed through it but herein lies the truth or something as close to the truth as I am willing to tell: “passing through”. I have made the failed relationship an art form. Sometimes in very dark moments I think that I have even made failure an art form in itself-- singlehandedly snatching defeat from the throes of victory and losing far more money than I could have ever earned.
All of which begs the next question: how much turgid writing and self pity will you the reader have to wade through? Does it seem Ennui and Angst are the gods of modern literature, the foundations now upon which we build our own personal mythologies? We collectively have redefined art as one more cliché amongst the clichés of our own lives and lacking anything that truly resembles an original thought --we collectively self destruct in front of a television audience. So it makes some sort of sense that we take pathos and place it upon a pedestal. We are victims in search of either a victor, a cause or a perpetrator, lost in our own self absorption.
So this then becomes the refrain of this century: “It’s all about me—and it always has been and I suffer deeply and alone in my hurt and you can’t possible know what it is I feel”. This too is my story --an ordinary life infused with imaginary meanings and non-events; of great impotence and somehow it meant something to me.
I suppose somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had great talent and imagination and if the truth must be known—we all do. That is--we all convince ourselves of wondrous abilities, talent and prowess, which may or may not exist and the ego blinds us to whatever that truth might be; and it just might be that we are creatures of infinite possibilities and incredible imagination and that gift is crushed and taken away, rendered lifeless by the conforms of society and by the tedium of our own existence. I suppose it is a restating of the obvious but creativity suffocates in a world in which every day begins to look like the next. In a consumer society it is the tedium, the struggle for ordinary goods and un-needed services that renders us sterile and so we begin looking for small miracles, minor differences and defining ourselves in terms of adventure. My day is different because the weather is different.
I digress. Once upon a time I painted. I am not sure that this actually means anything except to say I saw things—differently—and perhaps as they were and not as I wanted them. This is the sort of thing that describes an illustrator, not a great artist: a faithful reproduction of the object in front of me lacking in any sort of imposed greatness or deeper meaning. All of which may have been wonderful had I applied myself but to this day I seem to lack any sort of discipline. I don’t think I’ve ever really applied myself to much of anything except for woodworking , fornicating and fishing. Odd combination now that I think back upon it.
I'm in one of those moods.
I caught myself wondering where all the socks go that disappear in the laundry too. How much lint can a single shirt give off before it is no longer a shirt? In fact just lint itself is pretty amazing-- the break down of a loose amalgamation of fibers that once formed a single strand. Maybe thats a metaphor for a society that never was especially cohesive but a loose amalgamation of disparate groups thrown into the kettle together...spun together--and now just spun!
When you flyfish you can think about things like that. You watch the bamboo bend, the rod load and think about bamboo being another collection of fibers--this time all working together. I like bamboo--not that I can afford it or that it performs especially well--rather that it is a humble grass given new meaning and new purpose by the hand of man, a craftsman--and risen or elevated from that lowly origin to be placed upon a pedestal... Perhaps there is more metaphor in that?
I like to think of water cascading against rock when I fish. I watch each wave, rivulet and rapid. Ultimately, stubbornly the rock gives way. Change is inevitable but I take the moment to savor the polish of the rock as it gives way. Interestingly enough each wave or wavelet has it's own shape and voice--and noticing that has perhaps made me a better fisherman? Anyways I like to think of the water taking the rough edges off the rock. Isn't that the ultimate irony--that old school pyschoanalysis suggested water as a metaphor for sexuality?
Is that perhaps why we flyfish? Playing in the " metaphoric water" of unexplored sexuality and yearnings or taking away the rough edges of the ying and yang--the duality of spirit?
I am also having the time of my life lately. I now have a very kind and very supportive woman in my life who enjoys my warped sense of humor, adventure and irony. I have also taken to spending time in womens bars when I work in certain parts of the county. Very very interesting to say the least--and an exceptionally lovely brunette that I HAD ASSUMED was a lesbian--made a pass at me the other day... I like it when women, especially exceptionally attractive women make passes at me...and at my age that happens less and less. As well--so much for making assumptions about a person.
However it, this supposed womens bar, is always a never ending source of edification and a cross section of humanity that sums up all the issues we each struggle with in our own lives. There are the most lovely young things in there and they might as well be wearing a tattoo that says "Dysfunction"--that says their preference in partners is/was the result of trauma--and not genetics. There are those that might as well sport a tattoo that reads "This is the best way I could think of to get back at my parents" and then there are those who are just being true to themselves...
There's this funny little gay guy who stops by once in awhile. He is barely 5 feet tall--if that, and he has these enormous Dr Spock ears and I wonder if he has found or ever will find his soulmate... It's a gentle reminder--even a little bittersweet-- that my lot in life has not been so bad. What's it like--being homely, short and gay in THIS society where we worship youth and beauty? What's life like if you aren't 6-1 and cut, muscled, toned or whatever slang we now use to describe a hardbody? What is life like when you don't look like Brittany or Brad--and live/play/color outside the lines?
I suppose I could define my life as a series of misadventures and missteps that I was somehow never held accountable for; and in doing so embellish tales of the ordinary into something far more fanciful. Ah but for this moment, the life I’ve lived in my imagination is far too wondrous: men nobler and lovers more numerous and more beautiful. In more grandiose moments I suppose I could even define my life by the women that have passed through it but herein lies the truth or something as close to the truth as I am willing to tell: “passing through”. I have made the failed relationship an art form. Sometimes in very dark moments I think that I have even made failure an art form in itself-- singlehandedly snatching defeat from the throes of victory and losing far more money than I could have ever earned.
All of which begs the next question: how much turgid writing and self pity will you the reader have to wade through? Does it seem Ennui and Angst are the gods of modern literature, the foundations now upon which we build our own personal mythologies? We collectively have redefined art as one more cliché amongst the clichés of our own lives and lacking anything that truly resembles an original thought --we collectively self destruct in front of a television audience. So it makes some sort of sense that we take pathos and place it upon a pedestal. We are victims in search of either a victor, a cause or a perpetrator, lost in our own self absorption.
So this then becomes the refrain of this century: “It’s all about me—and it always has been and I suffer deeply and alone in my hurt and you can’t possible know what it is I feel”. This too is my story --an ordinary life infused with imaginary meanings and non-events; of great impotence and somehow it meant something to me.
I suppose somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had great talent and imagination and if the truth must be known—we all do. That is--we all convince ourselves of wondrous abilities, talent and prowess, which may or may not exist and the ego blinds us to whatever that truth might be; and it just might be that we are creatures of infinite possibilities and incredible imagination and that gift is crushed and taken away, rendered lifeless by the conforms of society and by the tedium of our own existence. I suppose it is a restating of the obvious but creativity suffocates in a world in which every day begins to look like the next. In a consumer society it is the tedium, the struggle for ordinary goods and un-needed services that renders us sterile and so we begin looking for small miracles, minor differences and defining ourselves in terms of adventure. My day is different because the weather is different.
I digress. Once upon a time I painted. I am not sure that this actually means anything except to say I saw things—differently—and perhaps as they were and not as I wanted them. This is the sort of thing that describes an illustrator, not a great artist: a faithful reproduction of the object in front of me lacking in any sort of imposed greatness or deeper meaning. All of which may have been wonderful had I applied myself but to this day I seem to lack any sort of discipline. I don’t think I’ve ever really applied myself to much of anything except for woodworking , fornicating and fishing. Odd combination now that I think back upon it.
I'm in one of those moods.
I caught myself wondering where all the socks go that disappear in the laundry too. How much lint can a single shirt give off before it is no longer a shirt? In fact just lint itself is pretty amazing-- the break down of a loose amalgamation of fibers that once formed a single strand. Maybe thats a metaphor for a society that never was especially cohesive but a loose amalgamation of disparate groups thrown into the kettle together...spun together--and now just spun!
When you flyfish you can think about things like that. You watch the bamboo bend, the rod load and think about bamboo being another collection of fibers--this time all working together. I like bamboo--not that I can afford it or that it performs especially well--rather that it is a humble grass given new meaning and new purpose by the hand of man, a craftsman--and risen or elevated from that lowly origin to be placed upon a pedestal... Perhaps there is more metaphor in that?
I like to think of water cascading against rock when I fish. I watch each wave, rivulet and rapid. Ultimately, stubbornly the rock gives way. Change is inevitable but I take the moment to savor the polish of the rock as it gives way. Interestingly enough each wave or wavelet has it's own shape and voice--and noticing that has perhaps made me a better fisherman? Anyways I like to think of the water taking the rough edges off the rock. Isn't that the ultimate irony--that old school pyschoanalysis suggested water as a metaphor for sexuality?
Is that perhaps why we flyfish? Playing in the " metaphoric water" of unexplored sexuality and yearnings or taking away the rough edges of the ying and yang--the duality of spirit?
I am also having the time of my life lately. I now have a very kind and very supportive woman in my life who enjoys my warped sense of humor, adventure and irony. I have also taken to spending time in womens bars when I work in certain parts of the county. Very very interesting to say the least--and an exceptionally lovely brunette that I HAD ASSUMED was a lesbian--made a pass at me the other day... I like it when women, especially exceptionally attractive women make passes at me...and at my age that happens less and less. As well--so much for making assumptions about a person.
However it, this supposed womens bar, is always a never ending source of edification and a cross section of humanity that sums up all the issues we each struggle with in our own lives. There are the most lovely young things in there and they might as well be wearing a tattoo that says "Dysfunction"--that says their preference in partners is/was the result of trauma--and not genetics. There are those that might as well sport a tattoo that reads "This is the best way I could think of to get back at my parents" and then there are those who are just being true to themselves...
There's this funny little gay guy who stops by once in awhile. He is barely 5 feet tall--if that, and he has these enormous Dr Spock ears and I wonder if he has found or ever will find his soulmate... It's a gentle reminder--even a little bittersweet-- that my lot in life has not been so bad. What's it like--being homely, short and gay in THIS society where we worship youth and beauty? What's life like if you aren't 6-1 and cut, muscled, toned or whatever slang we now use to describe a hardbody? What is life like when you don't look like Brittany or Brad--and live/play/color outside the lines?
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