Good morning, Ladies and Germs.
My mood is still improved today after the sleep deprivation I endured Saturday night. So in a series of one, if this holds with support from my medications, I will certainly add sleep deprivation to my depression toilette.
Meanwhile I have a fish story and a fishing poem.
I was fishing off a rocky cliff overlooking the blue, kelp-filled sea on Friday. As I hadn't caught a fish with my small pole yet, I thought I would use it--it's just a 5 1/2 ft. trout pole. I baited my hook with a cuttlefish head and threw it down to the rocky cove. In about 20 minutes something hit the bait hard and hooked up.
I had only 12 lb. test line with 8 lb. test for my leader, and based on the pull of the fish I had little hope of landing it. All I wanted to do was make it surface to see what the hell it was. Alas, it was not to be. After fighting it for half an hour the leader finally snapped--the proverbial one that got away. Yet the thrill of fighting that monster for so long with undersized tackle was a distinct pleasure. Because the purpose of fishing is not to catch a fish but to fish.
I'm more and more wary about using a credit card online. I've been charged for some silly things lately; 5$ to the Red Cross, 19$ to maintain a website I've never heard of, 12$ for a monthly credit report we didn't order. So I cancelled my card last night after calling two of the concerns to have the transactions made null and void. But you, dear reader, have to know how long such little interactions take.
I sometimes wonder if the electric nightmare we call finances actually requires more time of the customer than cash and a cash register. I've signed enough paper in my life to construct a house of papier mache'.
I'm no apocalyptic fundamentalist, but if they ever want to put a chip in my body or laser stripes on my arm, I'm headed for the hills. Everything is in place for a monolithic system to squeeze humanity right out of us. And the Bible does not mince words about the future; there is to be a great conflict before Christ returns, not these nickle-and-dime civil wars and acts of terror. According to my faith, things are going to get worse before they get better. But isn't that usually the case? Just look at my patchwork life for the term of this blog.
No earth-shaking thoughts today, just a poem on fishing.
Oyster shells and green rocks
gouge my soles while wadefishing
I cast yards of singing monofilament
over the breeze-stung waters.
The lure plunks, flashes and wiggles
home to my hands, then spins out
over the bay to tempt and re-tempt.
Fish follow the golden spoon but seldom strike.
The sun crawls under the clouds
at the edge of the earth as twilight comes on.
In murky water there are no depths
to imagine, only the dark cold sea
forever a bed of strangeness.
Waist-deep and wet, hands numb from reeling,
I waddle along the rocks and forget my hands
This is an exercise to learn perfection.
Fish are only the goad of the process.
I am casting well. The beautiful lure
mirrors the last drop of sun.
Light wanes, goldenrods shiver in the wind,
deserted grandstands from summer boat races
aim wooden stairways to nowhere,
to the sky big enough to swallow me
but I am harmless, without hooks.
Pelicans stare from pier posts
at my slow progress and regress.
There is no real progress here, only fishing.
(Written in 1978, published in Arkenstone and my first book, Elementary)