moments

A million notes in order to remember the day to day. The moments, that yes, make up the moments. And to someway or other organize, memorize, to understand the hows, whys, the meanings. 'Cos right now I'm floundering. I'm not on solid ground and I'm all but falling apart. Huge weights of 'known' pressures barrelling down on me. The unknown spooky as fuck on one hand and the knowable on the other. I am alone. I am the one and only achiever and planner for my destiny. I must focus all thought on getting it right. How do I expand my thoughts to books? To stories. And how do I de-woodify my writing? I want it to be wooden and I can't. I don't want it to be wooden and it's mahogany rush. Discipline is the message whispered on the wind to me. But whose? Mine? I have next to none. Except in pursuing my false pleasures. So long ago the feeling and meaning of the actions were forgotten. Mere mechanics... tick tick tick. And I have to find a way to look people in the eyes? Let them know I’m ok? I’m on the run. I always have been. I said somewhere that I am never truly comfortable. That I have only been comfortable a couple of times in the last years. And that was in a canoe, floating on a lake fishing, drinking beer. My straw hat shading my head as my feet got hot in the sun. Thinking of nothing. Mostly because I was so many miles away from any sort of civilization or place to do anything other than what I was doing. Fishing. I pulled some nice bass out of that lake, too. As a matter of fact I pulled the champeen bass out of that lake and was told so by the other two guides who had been fishing it all summer. Man, that was a beautiful day. Drifting around the lake, trying out hunches, coming up with nothing. Smoking my pipe. (I still think I’m too young for a pipe!) Then I was heading back to the cabin, the sun low but not quite setting behind me. I paddled hard, got some good speed then put my paddle in the canoe. It was coming around a point that had a rock shore that dropped and a big old log stump. I picked up my rod as I glided through the water and let fly my lure. BOFF! As my lure hit the water’s surface the bass hit my lure. As if they were both jumping, one from the sky and one from the bottom of the lake, to meet one another. Like long lost cousins running up a train platform to meet and hug and kiss one another. I fought him. And he fought me. In the end I won. I pulled him into my canoe after what seemed an eternity of him waltzing on the lake’s dance-floor surface. The sun slanting in a way that made the water’s reflection fire. The bass just kept dancing on his tail. Beautiful. I wrapped him in newspaper and took him back over to where the group was having their campfire cook out and showed him to the people. They were all foreigners; from a long way off. Come to see Canada’s great outdoors. I’d delivered. I was glad that supper was over because then I didn’t feel obligated to kill this watery prince. I slowly lowered him into the water, he floated dazed, shook himself once, twice and he was gone. I cut the blade of my paddle into the water and made for the cabin at the other end of the lake. Absorbed in the outward graces of the day.