fishbeer

Apr 20 2010 10:23 pm

a shot of the woods

Nubile green.  A cup overflowing with sperm.  A creek in the valley of these springing trees, of sand and rock and gravel alive.  From such small placid volumes come little gold and olive robots.  I wonder if they feel bad when they don’t spawn? 


The newborn ungulate of a life imponderable rambles forward.  Not at breakneck speed.  Not slowly.  Only irreversibly.  What thing in the future does not become merely a place mark on the map of our past?  What thing actually exists at all except in memory? 


I can never get my hands around what’s happening now.  I try very hard when I’m fighting a large fish.  I close my eyes for a second and think: “This is it.  Pay careful mind to what is happening right now.  Feel the rod bucking in your hand.  Soak it up.  This is what you walked up the creek for, this is what you tied those flies for, this is pretty much what you live for anymore.”  But there it went.  It slid away into memory and the soreness of my legs and here I am typing words and there you are reading them. 


I ate half a thing of chocolate Oreo Double Stufs on my ride home.  Thanks a lot Gregg.  I guess my high cholesterol will just be another tack in the come about of my life.

 

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