I decide to drive up to the mountains to a secluded ravine, where the fish are always hoppin'.
I offer this to myself for all the tremendous Work I'm inclined to accomplish faithfully.
I vow to myself this is about being a weathered lone man surviving in the cryin' wilderness.
Leavin' home, I have completely left behind the comforts of the weary world in my rearview mirror.
I am wearin' sackcloth, face covered in ashes, lip balm, sunscreen Factor XVI, Mentholatum dabbed in nostrils to abjure the stinky comatose state of Nature, & branded with a single tin cup, just in case.
I already have a tremendous neck rash from my crudely-cut shirt, & sweating profusely.
? But does that stop me ?
...Please.
I arrive. I breathe in the clean air. I think deep within myself, "Man, Nature is where it's at, its got a menthol-ee smell."
It feels sacred. The quiet is playing some-sort-of melody, that rejuvenates. And hopefully, I it.
Because batteries are too expensive for me, I power my boom-box with an extension cord, running from my continuously running old truck.
Since my engine blockhead has a slow leak, I poured in a wee bit too much oil at departure, so now my exhaust is smokin'.
I put in a CD, YES's Close To The Edge, put volume at 12, press repeat, then press play. The opening bird sounds attract other warblers.
And then it happens...
There's this guy, already fishin' upstream from me. He's quiet. Focused. It's like he's in some-sort-of-balance with Nature. Who the hell does he think he is !?!
And get this...
He's fly-fishin'. Oh !, Look at me, I'm the cabinet-maker-level of carpentry. I'm full of patience & skill.
Well. I quickly don my waders, purchased for 3 bucks at a garage sale & enter the liquid current field-of-endeavor.
Well. Let's just say, I'm wading in more than my waders.
He catches a fish, gently unhooks it, places the fish in the current's stream to assist oxygenation, & releases it.
I slap the watery surface hard & numerous times trying to drive the fish toward me.
While the fish is definitely making its way to me, he catches another. Then another. Then another again.
Well. I throw my metal crab cage against the rocky shore. The bait quickly draws a raccoon, he enters the cage & the doors close. I think, "Well at least I caught somethin'."
As I wade furiously upstream to him, with my non-hermetically-sealed waders, I am cast undercurrent.
He expertly casts a fly-hook into one of my suspender straps, & lifts me up into air.
Well. Game on. I fight him like sort sort of marlin. I seek more central deeper waters, he pulls me back. I twist & turn. He pulls me to shoreline, dragging me over the smooth & sharp stones carpeting the shoreline's interface.
I'm exhausted, laying there, belly up, like a great white whale. Water streams out my waders like a sieve, like linguini being drained in the sink.
I half-muster, "Don't cook me, but if you must, saute me, I'm fond of butter."
He replies, "Don't worry, it's catch 'n release here."
~~~
Well, long story short. With all the money I saved sans batteries, I invest in his soft necked cotton sweatshirts, colourful long & short shirts, tremendous funny ceramic mugs, & a host of other fine funny things.
Just To Lift Your Spirit:
SWEAT, SHIRTS, & MUGS
So get this...
I need to get away, from the drudgery of the day.
I decide to drive up to the mountains to a secluded ravine, where the fish are always hoppin'.
I offer this to myself for all the tremendous Work I'm inclined to accomplish faithfully.
I vow to myself this is about being a weathered lone man surviving in the cryin' wilderness.
Leavin' home, I have completely left behind the comforts of the weary world in my rearview mirror.
I am wearin' sackcloth, face covered in ashes, lip balm, sunscreen Factor XVI, Mentholatum dabbed in nostrils to abjure the stinky comatose state of Nature, & branded with a single tin cup, just in case.
I already have a tremendous neck rash from my crudely-cut shirt, & sweating profusely.
? But does that stop me ?
...Please.
I arrive. I breathe in the clean air. I think deep within myself, "Man, Nature is where it's at, its got a menthol-ee smell."
It feels sacred. The quiet is playing some-sort-of melody, that rejuvenates. And hopefully, I it.
Because batteries are too expensive for me, I power my boom-box with an extension cord, running from my continuously running old truck.
Since my engine blockhead has a slow leak, I poured in a wee bit too much oil at departure, so now my exhaust is smokin'.
I put in a CD, YES's Close To The Edge, put volume at 12, press repeat, then press play. The opening bird sounds attract other warblers.
And then it happens...
There's this guy, already fishin' upstream from me. He's quiet. Focused. It's like he's in some-sort-of-balance with Nature. Who the hell does he think he is !?!
And get this...
He's fly-fishin'. Oh !, Look at me, I'm the cabinet-maker-level of carpentry. I'm full of patience & skill.
Well. I quickly don my waders, purchased for 3 bucks at a garage sale & enter the liquid current field-of-endeavor.
Well. Let's just say, I'm wading in more than my waders.
He catches a fish, gently unhooks it, places the fish in the current's stream to assist oxygenation, & releases it.
I slap the watery surface hard & numerous times trying to drive the fish toward me.
While the fish is definitely making its way to me, he catches another. Then another. Then another again.
Well. I throw my metal crab cage against the rocky shore. The bait quickly draws a raccoon, he enters the cage & the doors close. I think, "Well at least I caught somethin'."
As I wade furiously upstream to him, with my non-hermetically-sealed waders, I am cast undercurrent.
He expertly casts a fly-hook into one of my suspender straps, & lifts me up into air.
Well. Game on. I fight him like sort sort of marlin. I seek more central deeper waters, he pulls me back. I twist & turn. He pulls me to shoreline, dragging me over the smooth & sharp stones carpeting the shoreline's interface.
I'm exhausted, laying there, belly up, like a great white whale. Water streams out my waders like a sieve, like linguini being drained in the sink.
I half-muster, "Don't cook me, but if you must, saute me, I'm fond of butter."
He replies, "Don't worry, it's catch 'n release here."
~~~
Well, long story short. With all the money I saved sans batteries, I invest in his soft necked cotton sweatshirts, colourful long & short shirts, tremendous funny ceramic mugs, & a host of other fine funny things.
"Oh... I'm there baby." ~ JR...