If it wasn’t obvious by my lack of fishing oriented posts, I have obviously been slacking on the fishing and a whole lot of other things I need to do. I knew this coming back into writing on this blog. I also knew that this time would focus away from pictures onto the story or thoughts. Straying away from the typical social media quip to focus on writing.
These last couple of weeks have been frustrating. Monsoon season is in full swing. To some, the rain is just the rain and is also a day in which to mosey around the house to clean or pick up the last few days of trying to be outside. Our earth moves, the sand shifts every which way. What was once an area of trail, now a river and tomorrow it will be somewhere else entirely. The lightning strikes are close enough to put holes through the roof. To collect static electricity and connect from the inside. Enough to soil your pants.
Flies and leaders are rolling off of the vice. Things are being fixed, the internet repaired, storage rooms built, shelves put up, simple fixes to cars and the like, the garden, the shop in it’s busy season and every year around this time, I’m itching to fish. The flies keep my sanity in check for the most part. The leaders tear my hands up. They are a reminder of what will happen. Fishing will happen. My imagination runs wild, putting me in the drivers seat of a perfect day while staring down the barrel of the vice. I know the day is coming soon.
In other news, when I began writing again, I knew that I had to freshen up my skills. To hone the edges of the proverbial pencil and just write. You’ll notice a few things different about the blog now. One of those is not trying to put out gold. This post is a great example of that. Keeping people in the know. I do not wish for people to have it in their head that nothing but fishing happens in my life. Granted, much of my life IS dedicated in some fashion to fish, there is so much more that goes on. Fish have even influenced my gardening technique. Off topic…. There will be many of these non-fishing, diary/journal style posts. There will be technical posts, tips and whatnot. Heck, I might even take a shot at fiction. Who knows!? I just want to keep that edge sharp. this is how I’m doing it.
Fingers worked to the bone, to dust. A stretched out arm divided, equally separated, neatly. Forced to commiserate, yet, never mourn. Harrowing footsteps on a path snubbed out by lightning strikes, never in the same place twice. All culminating into the visceral image of a man shattered, glass shards of equal distribution across a plane of strife.
The greatest enemy, those inner demons. Marching lockstep toward the infinite black of the mind. Never-ending armies of turmoil created by the same, motivated by the same. Dreams of happenstance and matters unrelated. Dreams of people thought of as friends. Still here locked away in a dungeon by choice, by name, unable to reach out. Dreams carried beneath the wings of wistlessness, undistracted by the horde, as a reminder to be.
Back and forth as a pendulum swings. It seems unending, relentless. The constant repetitive nature of the measurement of existence. The count grows higher, the ladder longer, the battle harder. Fight while it is still possible. Fight with fervent rage.
Take the step headlong into the abyss of the unknown. Change the course with every motion. Break the chains that restrict the motion and bind the pendulum. Express beyond the gleeful extreme, that ever increasing bar of pleasantries defined by what is seen, into reality. Struggle.
As I sit this morning, I must bar all thought. A blank space, fingers moving, typing. A warm-up exercise for the day to get the fluids moving. To conjure a thought, new, fresh. It is a thing for writers to write about their writer’s block, but is it a thing to force yourself to be blocked? I’ve always stated that repetitive motion is not understanding and I hold fast to that. The complexities of understanding are to see whatever issue it is from all sides. Sounds easy enough, politics has been polarized over the years to make us believe that it is one way or the other. The only way to simplify the block is to say it is either on or off. But it is not quite that simple. To force oneself to be blocked with the intention of being blocked is the same as being blocked with the intention of not being blocked. Feel free to read that last thought again as I gather some new ones.
It is curious, thinking about thinking. The idea of where a thought comes from and how those thoughts come to light. Paradoxical really. Time traveling through predictions of future thought but being there at completion and going back to change it. The quantum superposition of thought. In our minds we carry the cognitive ability to imagine, fictitiously, any scenario. Any possibility. As infinite as it all seems, somehow we drown it out. We focus. We bear down on the thought that we are incapable and by doing so renders us incapacitated. Feel free to read the thought from the first paragraph that you reread the first time.
I find it impossible to keep up with overthinking. What started as a blank idea, free of thought has now become a buzz in which I can not type fast enough, but it is sinking in. The ideas that I can pluck are not explainable on the
fly and I have hit a wall that casts aside new ideas.
I will not relate this to fly fishing.
I will not relate this to fly fishing.
I will not relate this to fly fishing.
Now, I’m trapped in the thoughts prior to this point. To more deeply think and explain the prior writings. They are already there and I promise they were not edited. It is much like linear time travel in real time. As titillating as thinking about the process of thought is to me, I feel as though it should be left there. Unchanged. Unabashed. Pure, raw thought… about thought. As ambiguous as it seems, maybe it isn’t at all. One day, I’ll wake up and write about this. Please reread from the beginning.
The sun beats down on the water as pearls of focused light spray themselves across the projector screen of a stone face. The drama unfolds in some futuristic, alien movie. Untranslatable and silent playing a message across the world at all times. It is a moment of zen, of purity.
The breeze gently slaps waves into the hull of the boat and against the shoreline allowing a subtle break from the heat. The prime function of the cooling evaporative effect in the human body working in overtime. Beneath the surface of the water, mechanisms are working in concert to sustain life. Life is making decisions of it’s own, choices to eat or die, to be prey or be predator. From atom to amoeba, from insect to human. All right here for a reason. It is chaos on an imperceivable level. It is output and work to maintain what we simply know as life.
Far beyond this place lie structures, concepts, ideas. The notion the we are in control of this chaos. A place where we think we can turn abstract complexities into something more pleasing. Something measurable. Geometry. Utilizing science to define, to predict the coming of something else. To assume we can fathom the concept of life itself. The constant turmoil of our machines, and the chaos of trying to get somewhere within a certain measurement of time. Bickering over self worth and ideas to manipulate the thought processes of others to be like us. Numbing ourselves with scenes of violence, with keeping up with the Joneses, with contributing ideas to the idea of how society functions and keeping that ideal of what we should be. All the while keeping us believing the chaos is controlled. Delivering peace through the word “because”.
Seeing through the eyes of the nascent, surrounded by the chaos beyond the city walls, magically floating on water, squinting as though seeing the sun for the first time, I am. I am here, part of this chaotic situation, at peace. Shrodinger’s cat, both alive and dead, unobserved and unable to observe those who live in the cities. Both answers unknown to either side, I have escaped. Only manipulated by the abstract concepts surrounding me, only defined by my impact upon it.
It is a sickness, similar to being laid up in a hospital bed with unfinished business. You left your oven on and you know it. The constant tug pulling you away from where you are. A place you do not wish to be. Any excuse seems legitimate.
There is no reprieve, no detox, no helpline. No friends to help with the itch beckoning you to your release. The friends are only enablers. Even in those moments of joy and excitement the memory seems dull and uneventful. Times spent around people numbingly tedious. Deep down, you want to enjoy those moments, but the oven is on. You left your home unlocked and your focus on the world around you fades.
The itch, the pull, the ever active light in your head. To be there in the cold while yearning for warmth. Surrounded by a safe place. To escape the relentless barrage of people breathing the same air, choking what oxygen is left. To be free of neon lights and unsmiling faces walking with no other care for the others who, blank-faced and emotionless, do the same. To be in that place again, to be in a place of non-judgement, to be free in that vast expanse of nothing. Those are the thoughts that dominate.
Until then, walking head down with my hands in my pockets, you will know what I am thinking and where I want to be. That person hiding in his cloak in public with the end goal of casting it off. To be who and what I really am, even though I might not know what that is. Even with age, I should know how to block it out, but I can not. A burden I have carried since childhood still wants me, still calls.