Monday, June 30, 2014

Fish on.

When exploiting fishing analogies it is helpful to watch several episodes of River Monsters back to back

Do I have time for this can of worms? I don't even know how to hook them.

Albert you've still got it

"Three Rules of Work: 

Out of clutter find simplicity; 
From discord find harmony; 
In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity." 

- Albert Einstein

Saturday, June 21, 2014

to the farmers down the road from my friend's parents' house

You have planted the same crops in the same fields again, huge swaths of corn, tobacco, wheat, and at the same time as every year past and with the same intention to harvest. There are a few rebellious pink flowers growing in among the wheat fields, please don't spray them with roundup, please don't poison the land that feeds us, that feeds itself when we let it, all it takes is planting a few rows of squash, some beans maybe, a couple of lines of kale and chard for the soil to replenish, just shake things up a bit, let some flowers grow, the rest will take care of itself

If you have not walked alone in the woods for some time

The clearest way into the universe is through a forest wilderness.

-John Muir

If you have not walked alone in the woods for some time it will require an adjustment. You will feel unsettled as you step past a series of woodpiles, signs of humans not present in these woods in the past, again each of the four times you fail to see a spiderweb until it is wrapping around your face, across your mouth, swatting frantically at threads hoping the spider itself isn't pressed, sticky and writhing, to your lips

Then it's down to the water, no signs of herons or fish either but rolling along deep, swift, a blue-green both eerie and inviting. You don't skip stones because you are not entirely unconvinced that a limb will burst from the algae as you lean out across the current and pull you, screaming, and with no one to hear your cries but the spiders, in

So you stand on the stones by the water's edge picturing the deer carcass from winter--stiff and morbid and decomposing ever-so-slowly into the gully, its entrails drip-drip-dripping into the creek. That deer may be in this water now, for all you know, parts of it anyway, blood and guts and decaying leaves swirling together, pulsing up and back down again into the murk wrought by summer storms