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?