One Small Step. One Giant Leap for Fishkind

 Oh shit! Icy daggers of water pouring in the tops of my waders. Feet scrambling to feel the rocky bottom. My mind racing; don't let go of that Sage fly rod; keep your feet facing down river; kick towards the promise of shallower water just downstream. Arms and legs growing tighter and heavier. Breathing, gasping, like steam engine puffs. Then, I feel it, first on my left heel, then the right. Digging both into the gravel substrate I let the current push me into a somewhat upright position. I plod into the ever shallower water like an over inflated Michelin Man and role onto the bank. My heart is pounding like a bass drum but more importantly, my Sage fly rod is still firmly gripped in my left hand. So the adventure began, with a single small step.

The day started out like most other fine summer days along the Delta Clearwater river. Its crystal waters rippling over the rocky bottom casting ever undulating shadows. Standing at the state campground boat landing I ponder if I should go upstream to the large bend across from the Delta Clearwater lodge where I know the Grayling often congregate, or should I head downstream to less explored waters. Knowing that I still had a few more days to tease the fish, I decide to explore some new water and head downstream.

The first few hundred yards is an easy riverside stroll along well establish trails on the edge of the boreal forest. Flames of fireweed blooms sway in the breeze as lush green ferns combine with scraggly wild rose scratch along the legs of my waders. As the trail narrows and dodges spruce tree trunks bowing towards the steep river edge occasional sloping openings allow me to drop down to the river and scout for Grayling sipping  mayflies from the surface. There's not much activity now though I suspect it will pick-up as the sun rises higher into the sky and entice the insects to emerge on the waters surface. I press on further downstream.

The trail dwindles to a moose path and begins to drop in elevation. I emerge onto a marshy flat draining into the river over silt and cattails. I make my way to the river's edge and examine the water for fishing opportunities. The flats allow ample room for even my rather limited casting perfection. The opposite side  seems to hide a deeper channel partially undercutting its alder and birch studded bank. A bit further downstream the river snakes back to the left leaving a rocky shallow shoal. Upstream a small birch tree waves in the water waiting to snag any unwary canoe sliding along the far bank. Its disturbance creates a shadowy and fishy looking back-eddy.

I rig up my fly line with an extended body, olive mayfly imitation and trudge out to where the silt flat slopes into the main current. My line unfurls like a green snake glistening in the sunshine behind me as I begin my forward cast. The fly streaks across the currents and lands with a soft plop about mid-steam. Unfortunately it falls far short of the birch tree's back-eddy just as the golden body of a Grayling slashes into the sunlight just behind the tree. I take a couple the steps into the deeper currents and prepare for another cast. This cast also falls short so I repeat the process until the rushing waters are gabbing at the chest of my waders. I analyze the situation. The bottom has changed from cobblestone to loose shifting gravel under my feet, causing me to periodically adjust my footing. Just ahead, just a small step,  the gin clear water reveals the possibility of a better foothold, but how much deeper is it? The Grayling slashes another mayfly from the surface just behind the birch tree calling me forward like the melody sung by the Greek Sirens of old. My feet begin to roll on the rock marbles beneath. I lung forward hoping for better footing but my feet find nothing but emptiness. So the adventure begins and hopefully does not end!

I lie on the far bank and let some of the terror drain from my heaving lungs and pounding heart. I laugh at my stupidity for worrying so much about keeping my fly rod so firmly in my grasp while floundering about in the icy waters, but am relieved that I had done so. Standing upright my numb, shaking fingers struggle to unsnap the buckles of my flooded waders with the intention draining out their sloshing contents. Shaking fingers accomplish their purpose and soon I peel off their cold, sucking material, spilling their icy gallons of liquid onto the mossy shore. Next off are my pants and shirt which I wring out and hang on a nearby shrub to dry in the sun. I'm lucky. It's a beautiful summer day, probably about sixty-five degrees and the sunshine warms my clammy skin. 

What to do now? My unplanned swim has taken me to the north bank of the river, the wrong side. My camp and all road access lies across the icy channel that I just traversed in such life threatening style. Warming in the sunshine I consider my options while slapping mosquitoes from my no longer numb exposed skin. First order of business, apply bug-dope before I become a swollen, itchy blob of raw meat. Digging into the chest pocket of my waders the horrifying realization that my bottle of bug-dope has become dislodged during my swim and is probably  miles down stream. Reluctantly I wiggle back into my still wet but no longer dripping pants and shirt. 

I decide to wait. Occasional power boats ply these waters and surely if one comes by it will take pity on this half drown waif and ferry me up to the boat launch. Swat! Good, I got that damn  bitch mosquito trying to withdraw her allotment of blood from the end of my nose. An hour passes and still no buzz from an outboard motor, only the buzz of determined mosquitoes. Maybe I should pass the time by attempting a few casts to that fucking Grayling that lured me into this predicament in the first place. I struggle back into my corpse skin waders and pick up my fly rod. This side of the river offers a better casting angle to reach the birch's back-eddy but a few casts prove that the Grayling had been sufficiently entertained by my previous flopping about in its watery world to move on to a more peaceful place. Looking at the deep channel separating me from the camp side of the river I contemplate just going for it and taking another icy plunge of fate but what little sense resides in my brain convinces me otherwise. "Hmm. The boat launch can't be much more than a mile up the river and just a few bends beyond would put me directly across from the Clearwater Lodge where I know I can cross without swimming. " I should just start hiking."

Sweat drips into my eyes stinging them with the smashed mosquito parts plastered to my forehead. I stop to rest on yet another spruce dead-fall that blocks my way. Wild rose bush thorns snag my hands and alder cones ensnare my fly line. The thick moss under my feet make each step like walking in sand. I take the time to clip off my fly and reel the line onto the reel's spool. Up ahead the brush gives way to a more flat area pocked with crotch high tussocks crowned with cat-tails and red tinged hemlock. The way forward looks easier but anyone who has walked through tussocks knows the such a landscape hides true misery. Soon I'm dragging my testicles over the tussocks like a toddler with a loaded diaper. Each step up is like climbing a three foot stair only to be followed with a step down into slippery mud.  My ears prickle like cactus as the incessant mosquitoes probe their every fold. "Midges. That is what they are. Trout food, as any good fly fisherman will tell you." That thought provides me no solace.

Relief! The ankle twisting, crotch biting tussocks suddenly give way to smooth water. Then the realization that I've been walking not along the a contiguous side of the river, but rather, along an island in the stream, hits home. The shoreline that is across from the lodge, the shoreline which I hoped to give access to safe passage, is on the far side of this water. The water ahead is perhaps a couple of hundred yards wide with little current. It appears shallow and certainly crossable. I plunge in and immediately sink to me knees into the duck shit muck that hides beneath its surface. Pausing for a moment to reconsider the options, my foot sinks deeper into the morass. The only option is forward. Pulling with all my might I extract one foot and throw it forward for another step. This forces my back foot to sink even deeper. I pull it up. My wading boot slides a notch down my ankle in its preference to remain in its muddy grave but I manage to keep it on. Every step is the same. I pull one foot forward only to drive the other deeper. 'How deep does this muck go? Who knows?" With eons of ducks crapping it might extend for yards. The everglades are known for quicksand but up here we have quick-duckshit. Visions of sinking forever into a stinking abyss drive me forward. My waders seem to be filling with sweat as my lungs heave with every yard gained. In desperation I sprawl forward into the few inches of water covering the muck in sort of a combination dog paddle otter hop. Watery soup pours over the tops of my waders and despite its rancid smell its coldness soothes my heaving lungs. Can one die of hyper and hypo-thermia at the same time? A bump! Something solid has bumped into my toe. I explore it with my half-off boot and discover a tree trunk buried  about foot down into the sucking mud. Getting one foot on top of it I try to pull my other up as well. The reluctant boot slides halfway off my foot but I manage to extract it and climb onto the tree.

Standing on my precarious perch I survey my situation. A hundred yards of flats lies ahead and an equal distance lies behind. Good sense would dictate to retrace the steps I have already made rather the risk the unknown that lies ahead, but my head is not known for its good sense. I could just wait here and hope for a passing boat, but what boat would feel compelled to rescue this mud encrusted statue posed in what looks like shin deep water? Never the less I wait and use the time to perform an uncomfortable and never practiced yoga move to retie my sagging wading boot. " That hum, could it be an approaching motor? No, its just the damn mosquitoes chewing through my cheek bone." I sprawl off my tree trunk and resume my belly crawl towards the distant shore.

Although the distance seemed to grow longer with every paddle I eventually haul myself out onto the spongy moss of shore. I see the boat landing on the opposite shore a short distance ahead and after shaking some of the clinging duck poo mud from myself continue my trek into the boreal undergrowth. After another half mile I find myself standing across from the lodge. An older lady sits upon a lawn bench near the riverside enjoying the the day and her book. She sees me and gives a friendly wave while a few revelers on the lodge's deck swill their afternoon beer. No one has a clue as to my day's adventure. I make my way to the spot I have forded the river numerous times and begin my practiced but somewhat tricky crossing of the rivers's currents. With more caution than usual I drag my aching body to the other side and walk, stinking of duck mud and sweat to my camp. 

Stripping off my clothes I hose off with fresh water and pull on clean, warm clothes. I brew a hot cup of Costa Rican coffee and add a generous splash of whiskey. I build a blazing fire in the fire ring and settle next to it in a camp chair. Soon a man in the latest Simms waders comes by carrying a top-of-the-line fly rod. "Saw you out on the river. Anything biting?" 

"Nothing but mosquitoes." I reply.

"OH well. As they say, the worst day of fishing is better than the best day of working." He strolls off as I contemplate the fact that he has NO idea!

A Father's Love non-fiction

Dad's Shakespeare Model FN 

 The mist hangs over the  early morning mirrored waters of Lake Owen. A pair of loons whistle to each other as they work the shoreline. The stillness seems to extend farther than the pine forest that surrounds our gently rocking skiff. SCREECH rips through the silence like a scalded bobcat...like a truck engine deprived of oil and its piston bulldozing into the cylinder wall. The loon pair slips in silence beneath the lakes surface. Jumping from my seat at the boat's bow I prepare to dive to safety to join them. Then I hear the familiar click,click clack of my Dad's ancient Shakespeare reel as he reels in his line. Then another SCREECH rips through the air as Dad winds up for another cast, the nightcrawler flailing through the air trailing behind the half pound lead sinker rocketing  it to a noisy splashdown fifty feet off the port side bow. Ahhh...No imminent danger, other than from possible flying worm guts.

Thus is the memory dredged from the recesses of my mind as I gaze upon my Dad's old fishing rod now perched atop his roll-topped oak desk that now sits in my study. The faux pearl handle where his hand used to rest and the fuzzy dacron line spooled by his hand onto the old reel. The ancient rod and reel were a huge embarrassment to my pre-adolescent mind at the time and only now do I recognize the love present in this hands.

We were fishing on Lake Owen, just outside Cable Wisconsin. I am sure my Dad would have much preferred to be walking the green sunny fairway of a golf course, yet here he is sitting in a creaky john boat with his not quite snot-nosed anymore son. I'm sure my Mom had lit the fire under his butt to spend some of his meager vacation time doing something with me  that I enjoyed, so here he was in the boat with me. He was never much of a fisherman. He used to tell the story of how he once went on an ocean fishing charted with a bunch of his buddies in the Army air corps. Everyone around him on the deck were pulling up fish one after the other while his bait went unmolested. Feeling sorry for him, one of his friends re-baited his own hook and handed his pole over to Dad to use. They swapped places along the deck, even switch sides of the boat, all to no avail. Everyone else kept catching fish while my Dad's line remained slack. No, Dad was not much of a fisherman. Oh, he'd occasionally take me to his brothers house along the Fox River in Oswego Il. where we would occasionally catch a Carp or two and sometimes we would drive the twenty or so miles to Silver Springs State Park and pretend we were going to catch some bass, but for the most part he didn't share my enthusiasm for the sport. He did enjoy getting out in nature, looking at the birds and perhaps a deer or two. More than anything he liked spending time with me, seeing ME smile and revel in nature's melodies. Melodies to which both our souls could harmonize.

After that "embarrassing" morning on Lake Owen, we went to shore and quickly made a trip to a nearby tackle shop. There, I purchased for him, a brand new Zebco spin-cast fishing rod and reel with modern monofilament line. I currently have that screechless reel also perched on his roll-topped desk. Silent though it may be, it is his old Shakespeare that screams of my Dad's love for me the loudest. 

Thank-you Dad.

Seeing is Believing...maybe not

 One of the things that makes me most nervous about Trump is his creation of the term "Fake News." It would give hime to much credit to say that he was the first to create fake news. It has been around probably since human's first guttural mumblings. No Trump didn't invent it but he coined the phrase and thus I blame him.

Verbal and written deceptions are scary enough but visual ones visual ones would be or more should I say, are much scarier. Humans, by are very nature tend to believe what we see more than what we are told. This is especially true today as so many people don't have the patience to hear or read but rather are addicted to the fast pace of video. Is there a more damning evidence than a video of some politician engaging in some lurid act while being secretly filmed? 

I read an article a month ago, describing how even under funded hackers can now create video clips from publicly available voice and video clips thrown in with a bit of digital manipulations that show their quarry doing and saying things that never took place. Their manipulations can only be detected by digital experts using sophisticated analysis and even then it can take days or weeks to determine the fraud. The speed at which information is now distributed renders such analysis almost useless. The carnage is already committed. 

Presently it takes someone with certain knowledge, skills and equipment to make a convincing video fraud but this ability is quickly becoming available to any moron with a laptop. Hell, even the porn industry is already embracing it. They make movies of celebrity look-a-like writing in ecstasy beneath tubular aliens of good enough quality to arouse the libido of their fat, scrundgy viewers. The more mainstream makers of animated movies even go out of their way to inject a tiny amount of artificialness into their characters because too much realism unsettles their audiences. 

What will happen when deep pocketed and well organized groups like governments, terrorists and espionage experts start using this technology? Are they using it now? Probably. What happens when every nerd with a computer of phone can utilize this technology? Truth doesn't die but it certainly becomes indiscernible in the sea of informations.

So if you see a video of Trump blowing Putin or Biden eating fetuses don't believe them. Your eyes CAN deceive. So what should we believe...who knows? (and that is what will tear society apart) 

Cold Mornings

 The sun rose into a cold day this morning. It's not really cold, only about +25 F. In another month or so I will find such a temperature a pleasant reprieve. Not so this morning. The air slaps my face like the bite of the first shot of clear vodka at an evening party. Everything is relative. 

Cindy is at work again at what is supposed to be her day off. Public Health's computer system went down at the end of her work day preventing her from finishing her charting on the progress or regression of her beloved Covid patients. Once again I find myself alone in this old house. At one time in my life I would have found this dis-heartening at the least or anger provoking at the worst. Not so today. Over time I've accepted the fact that I am but one love in my wife's life. Her love of nursing; her love of helping the afflicted, has permeated her being since before I entered her life. I have played "second fiddle, or at least only a single fiddle of the many in her orchestra. When my own life was busier, full of chasing snotty nosed kids and career generated dollars this often made me angry and frustrated. Today I just accept it as part of her. How could I be so selfish as to want to not share this person with the rest of the world? The world needs her. 

I'm not sure how the previous paragraph relates to it being a cold morning or to "Everything being relative," but these were my thoughts when I sat down to write this on this blog today. I could share with my readers, or bore them, and write about the wood-pecker on my front yard tree, or the few words I exchanged with the lady walking her dog down the street on this brisk morning. (nice lady) But I think I will spare you boredom of reading the individual threads that sew together the tapestry of my life. 

Rays of Hope

What a beautiful day! Mountain sky blue stretching for eternity above with ribbons of golden sunshine streaming down like warm caresses. The morning air nipping at my nostrils like a playful puppy.  I think I, like most people who live nearer the poles, notice days such as today with more appreciation. Appreciation forged from a heart that knows that such blessings are soon to be lost. The hours of daylight are vanishing at a noticeable pace. My senses are awakening from their slumber through endless summertime daylight with little need of the warm coziness of a jacket. New pleasures are approaching; the blackness of winter nights dotted with stars billions of miles away; the sounds of white silence; the hug of a warm steamy house. Yes these pleasures are coming and probably too soon! But for today I'm happy that my senses have been jolted awake to relish the sweetness the universe is showering upon me today, even if they are to be soon replace with other blessings.

Mindfullness vs Mindlessness

 In today's world there is renewed interest in mindfulness. We are advised to be mindful of what we eat,where we shop and how we interact with the world. Yoga instructors give classes emphasizing to be aware of how we move our bodies, what muscles we tense or relax and position of bones and joints. Meditation enthusiasts instruct us to focus on a given mantra, or for the real experts, to focus on nothing at all. (Have you ever tried to think nothing at all? My experience says such is impossible for the human brain.) We are told to "get in touch with our feelings." In essence we are to be aware; of everything we do, say and think. 

Amid this sea of mindful advice, we are also instructed to "go with the flow," to just let the universe wash over us; to "place our trust in god." We should go with our gut instinct, go with our first choice and not overthink our actions and their reactions. What is a mind to do?

Perhaps there is no dilemma here. Our bodies, and I think the universe itself, demands such counter-diction. The muscles in our limbs are set on opposite sides of their supporting bones and are in constant tension counteracting each other when the limb is "at rest." When we move a limb one set of muscles lessons it tension while the opposing muscle increases it by contracting. When the moon orbits its planet the force of its momentum balances the force of gravity between them. I once read that some great scientist,who's name escapes me, postulated that in any sufficiently complex system of logic there exists counterdicting true statements. 

I think I tend to favor the "go with the flow" mantra in my life. My body performs the vast majority of its activities in a mindless state and usually I'm quite happy about it. I'm glad I don't need to tell my stomach to go ahead and empty its contents into my intestines or which of my muscles to contract or relax in order walk or run. I find it very stressfull when I take a class in fly-casting and need to be aware of the proper movements to send my fly gracefully over a river's ever changing currents. When I attempt to do so it inevitably results in my skilled instructor admonishing me and telling me, "you're just waving your arms around like a discombobulated windmill." When I find myself standing on a stream and decide to pay attention to what I'm doing my casts quickly go to hell and my level of enjoyment decreases almost completely. In a short time I revert back to daydreaming and just let my arms and body revert to doing their own thing. I follow the motto of that successful sports shoe manufacturer (Addios or Nike?) and just "Do It." That is not to say that I don't at times espouse the "mindful" approach. I did after all, sign up and pay money to take that fly-casting class and certainly am mindful of my feet when crossing the rocky bottom of a swiftly flowing river. (Although, many good stories have originated from such occasions when I forgot to to be mindful. Stories of wet, cold, terror. ) Both opposing states are required for the rich homeostasis of life.

Mundane Pleasures

 I often find pleasure in rather mundane, mindless and senseless tasks. Tasks which most people probably would not list as their favorite activities in life. Most people dread shoveling snow, mowing the lawn, washing the dishes and painting a wall. Not that I always eagerly seek out such "chores." Sometimes, especially in my busy past, I would and will go to extreme lengths to avoid such senseless, mindless and repetitive endeavors. These very characteristics are exactly what I seek out sometimes, especially now that I am living the leisure life of retirement. Maybe mindless activity is a perfect fit for my now daft mind. 

Gardening, digging in the dirt, pulling weeds, harvesting the procedes are all cyclic and repetitive. Some people would argue that it certainly isn't mindless or senseless. They plan their gardens; measure their soil chemistry; arrange their planting for maximum yield or beauty.  They would argue, "gardening certainly is not senseless, it provides tasty and healthy food after all ." They may be right but I prefer to keep my garden mindless and senseless. I can easily obtain all the tasty and healthy food I desire from the grocery store and probably at less cost and time than I put into my garden. Its a good thing too! If I had to feed myself from my garden I would be one skinny dude. I also like to keep my gardening mindless. Sure I think about what and where I want to plant but I do it on the spur of the moment, not according to specific instructions from a book. Yes, sometimes i will read about gardening or watch a video on the subject but mainly just for background information.  Basically I just play. Feeling the warmth of the sun on my back and the coolness of the soil in my fingers.  Watching the beetles and spiders scampering about in the leaf litter. I love it that three is no-one around to tell me I'm doing it all wrong. I do it however I feel like doing it at the time.

Many people, especially men, grumble about mowing the lawn or shoveling snow. I rather enjoy both activities. Like gardening, there is no one around to bitch about how I am doing it. I can mow the grass in squares or diagonals or even circles if I can figure out how to do so. I can pick any starting point that suits my fancy even if my choice results in re-shoveling or re-mowing a given spot. I can strive for the utmost efficiency or I can forget efficiency and just strive to hold off working in one area so as to not disturb a rabbit or squirrel or bird that is hanging out at a given location. I can inhale the smells of the warm grass or the sharp bite of the cold night air. While the lawn mowers growl can be mesmerizing I think I prefer the scrape of the shovel and the dull thud of snow "frurrumping" into drifts. Once again, basically I just play.

Now that I find myself becoming a mindless old man even dishwashing can be be pleasurable. This certainly was not the case in my younger years. I have owned several automatic dishwashers (mechanical ones, not wives and children.) I used to refer to those machines as, "marriage savers," as they saved my marriage from collapsing into a heap of moldering plates and pans. If one broke down it became a priority to repair or replace it. I could write an entire history on the lives and demise of the dishwashers I have owned but not in this post. Now I often find soaking my old hands in the warm,sudsy water quite pleasing, even mildly erotic, especially if its a cold day. Yes, I still bitch, "Cindy, why didn't you at least rinse this cup after you drank this sticky creme soup out of it?" Or, "You could of at least taken your paper napkin off the plate before you threw it in the sink!" But the memories of the tasty meals that dirtied the dishes and the love shared while eating them also warms my heart as the water warms my hands. Washing dishes leaves me feeling grateful and maybe a bit guilty over the abundance in my life. I can't say that I really play while doing the dishes, at least not the way small children do when they do. Maybe some day I will learn to be more childlike again, For now I'll just settle for the sensuality of the water warming my hands while memories of meals and time spent at the sink with my mom or sister warm my heart.

Focus, WRITE

 My mind woke up screaming today. I mentioned it in my previous post. I've been trying to slow it all morning with no success. Trying to focus on one task, one train of thought, only to be side tracked in another direction moments or minutes later. I must write.

Writing forces me to focus on the words at hand; on the mechanics of typing; on the grammar and punctuation of putting thoughts in a lineare progression. I think writing, and reading, is more therapeutic than speaking and listening. Perhaps that is why I have taken up blogging at this time.

Corvid-19 has effected me along with everyone I know. It is effecting all while infecting few. Social distancing has greatly reduce my face-face interaction with other humans. This has left my brain with little to do but to think. It has much more time to "free wheel" as I like to call it. My mind enjoys free-wheeling. I often think people should allow their minds to free-wheel more often. I think it is a fundemental need of the human brain to break the bonds of everyday mundane activity and to turn inward and bounce around inside its empty skull for a bit. However, too much free-wheeling also defines Attention Deficit Disorder and I think writing forces focus and counters this tendency.

Speaking and listening also force focus a bit. However, with its free flowing current constantly changing direction at every obstacle and twist, it more resembles the free-wheeling mind. Conversations never stay on target for more than a few minutes before taking aim at a new horizon. I, like most people, enjoy a good conversation, it gives fodder for my brain to bounce around in my skull during its free-wheeling time. However, in excess, its transience can leave me a bit unsettled.

So many thoughts, ideas, feelings, all screaming to escape their space and time. Like individual beings all wanting to be recognized and announced to the universe. Writing gives them some measure of permanence even if its just an illusion. Permeance is an endangered species in todays world, if it ever really existed. Thus I write; striving for some kind of eternal life despite knowing that no such thing exists.

Today

 I awoke this morning thinking about what I wanted to write on this blog for today. My mind was awash with so many ideas, jumping from one topic to another like the rhythmic ocean waves pounding on rocky shorelines. The fire of coved-19; the reasons I write; the idiocy and genius of Trump; the value of libraries. The list could go on. Then I stepped outside with my coffee in hand. I watched the dawn break with its colors of orange, purples in pink painting the eastern sky with hope of a new day, driving the darkness of night receding to its western quarter. I'm still unsure what to write. Maybe it will come to me later but for now I think I will just watch and revel in the sun's warmth.

HOPE

 Yesterday Donald Trump tested positive for Covid-19! One of his close aides. HOPE Hicks, tested positive after exhibiting symptoms and it is implied that she passed this dragon virus onto Trump. Wow! How fitting her first name seems to be. HOPE, for she has given me hope for the future of this great country. Hope that the great imposter, this self-serving piece of shit that cares nothing for his people unless they benefit him in some way, will now suffer immeasurable prolonged pain like he has inflicted on so many of this world. Only time will tell if this HOPE will be realized; but I sure HOPE it will be so.

Perhaps the greatest evil this beast has brought to this planet is the very hatred I express in the paragraph above. Perhaps it gives him too much credit to say that he brought this curse to us; for I believe it has existed since time immortal. How does his moto, "America First" really differ from "Me first!" and certainly this attitude is part of every living organism. It is what drives an ameba when it engulfs a smaller,weaker organism to use for its own metabolic energy. No, Trump didn't invent this concept although I'm sure he would proclaim such credit if he thought it would benefit him. Perhaps he simply is simply a distillery; a filter, separating the bad from the good characteristics of life. He divides love and hate; abundance and scarcity; Freud's ID from his super-ego. Life requires a mix of these qualities to exist. It requires a constant pull and push of these opposing forces to maintain its homeostasis. Trump actively separates and divides these into separate camps with an ever thinning line dividing them.  What happens when this line ruptures? The prophetized Armageddon? Does one side win or is there mutual annihilation? Life cannot exist without homeostasis; the constant push and pull of opposing forces. Maybe annihilation is the ultimate everlasting peace, but a peace without any joy.

All I know  is that I hate this man, and more to the point I hate that I hate. I go to bed fantasizing about prolonged, agonizing deaths that I would rejoice in inflicting on him. I love life and its constant give and take. I truly hate the black shadow my hate casts amid the sunshine of  love.

Manic Day Bliss

 Today I find myself in a very happy place. If I am a manic/depressive being (aren't we all to some degree) I am definitely in a manic phase and I love it. Some of my delight is triggered by the warm golden sunshine streaming down from above. (Two days in a row, it must be a record for this summer.) I'm sure yesterdays stroll through the Top of The Word on Wickersham Dome also is effecting the chemistry of bain. Indeed, one of yesterday's events most certainly is contributing to the smile in my brain.

During my hike yesterday I forgot my walking stick at a point along the trail. The stick was of a stem of diamond willow which my son had harvest from the banks of the Chena River. He gave it to me several years ago and I carved,sanded and finished it to a golden rod with deep, blood colored diamond shapes contrasting with its light golden wood. It formed the perfect shape to fit my hands with its curving, gnarled   surface. Normally such a loss would have tinted my world a bit in to depressed gray but the events that followed had an opposite effect.

When I got home I posted a blurb on Facebook about losing it. Within a very short time I received a response from a fine young lady informing me that they had found the object and were delighted to be able to put it back in my hands. She and her family of 4 had encountered me along the trail and we had briefly exchanged pleasantries. They found the stick propped up in a trailside bush and remembered that fine walking stick in my grubby hands during that brief encounter. Her young son had dutifully carried it back to the trailhead in hopes that they could return it to me. Alas, I had already departed when they arrived.

This morning I awoke to marvelous sunshine and the knowledge that I would be re-united with the lost object. While picking up the stick at Paige's home I learned that Paige and knows my daughter, Rachel, through their mutual nursing jobs at the hospital. Sometimes it truly is a small world. I love this place where I live! I exist among boundless landscapes in which I  roam and people who aren't afraid to share a bit of themselves with each other. How did I come to be so blessed?

Weird Place of My Mind

 My mind is strange place. Since my wife if gone at work, fighting the dreaded Covid-19 dragon, I find myself alone in the house on yet another cool,rainy and gloomy morning. At first my thoughts busied themselves with contemplating the evolution of the fishes of this world and then the more general evolution of life. (Did you know that 75% of fishes in today's world evolved in fresh water?)  In my mental model of life, I see all life as existing in an eddy in the river of time. It exists in the counter-current flowing opposite to the universal headlong rush to entropy, the lowest energy state. Like all the water in a river it can flow backwards to the main current, perhaps due to some obstruction, but it eventually rejoins the unrelenting rush to oblivion. Perhaps, and most likely, this analogy applies not just to life but also to existence itself. I think of existing in terms of mass and matter, but are not mass and matter not also just eddies within this steam flowing to oblivion? Matter eventually "degrades" to energy, but energy itself eventually expands and dilutes until it is nonexistent. A photon emitted from a star like our sun, streaks through space, getting less intense until it exists no more. Indeed, nothing can be said to exist unless there is an opposite state we term nonexistence. An immutable duality that that seems to permeate everything. There is no such thing as nonexistent without there also being existence and vice-avcercea. There is no good without there being evil; no god without there being a satan; no life without a death. Is the ultimate peace nonexistence?

My mind can not handle contemplating such deep trains of thought for too long before getting distracted by more mundane activities; before returning to the comfort of the circular flow of the eddies of existence. An object that my wife gave me snapped me back into more comfortable thoughts. The object is a wooden rectangle about 10 inches in length and 3 inches of width. Its sides are constructed of 3/4 inch boards with metal pegs inserted into the wood sides, so that they protrude upwards out of the sides to a height about 3/4 of an inch. The two long sides are separated from each other by end pieces of about 1.5 inches long wedged between the long sides of the rectangle and a similar piece supporting the middle of it My wife had given me the object as a way to support my cell phone in an upright position for the duration of a vides call I was expecting. I was intrigued as to what purpose this object was built to perform. It was obviously engineered for some reason but I was at a loss as to what that purpose was. Examining it closer I noticed that it was stamped with the words, "www.knittingboard.com." Like any good twenty-first century man I immediately got on the internet and navigated to this "location" in the digital world. There I found video instructions on how to use this device to tie specific knots in yarn around the metal pegs to create fabric and form it into socks or hats. The ingenuity of humans amazes me! 

From this point my mind wandered to a myriad of other directions in this eddy I find myself trapped inside. Why do I know so little about textiles and the processes of creating them? Why in my current society are these processes relegated so much to the female gender? Have they always been primarily so relegated in human history? Could knot tying be a form of communication? The Mayan culture sure made an attempt to do so. Communication, at its core, is an attempt to pass our information on to "others", both through time and space. Even our genes are attempts at such. But time and space is nothing without the duality of existence and nonexistence. I'm trapped in this eternal eddy so I might as well enjoy however it flows. There is no alternative.

Sex

 I think young people mistakenly believe that they have a monopoly on good sex. They think their lithe bodies and exquisite senses must surely make them champions in arena of sex. They don't even want to see or even think about old people engaging in such activity. I say, "ba-humbub!"

Like any sport, practice makes perfect, ..... Well not perfect, as with anything there is always room for improvement. This time should always be the best ever, but it takes takes the wisdom and perspective of age to see this is truly the case.

I probably should end this post now. After all, if my children ever read this they will probably be appalled; but I bet they will continue to read it it anyway. That is the way our current society treats this subject. Hiding it, not talking about it, yet at the same time seeking it out, exalting it even commercializing it. (Hey,  we commercialize everything. Why not SEX? ) Sex is a natural enjoyable act like eating and drinking. If it weren't for sex our species would not be here. We humans are blessed with brains that add more dimensions to sex than most other species can not even dream about. The social media sites are full of peoples' photos and intricate descriptions of their last scrumptious meal, or the perfect glass of wine they consumed but polite people don't post pictures and descriptions of their latest copulation feats or feast. I don't want to be tortured with images of many of my acquaintances so engaged, but hey, I also don't want to see the images of their last meals either. 

Sex is great in all its forms and contortions. Frivolous sex, sex for a purpose, angry sex, make-up sex, stranger sex, marital sex. This list could go on and on. Its all good. I'm a great fan of it. More people should try it. Maybe we should get rid of the taboos; but hey, the taboos give sex give sex some spice. As for me, the last sex I had was the best ever. And so will be the next time. Sex is transcendent.  

The Last Days

 It has been many suns since I last wrote on this blog;too many perhaps. Its been so long that I forget exactly how to use this media. I would swear I have made other posts, perhaps on other blogs that I created but I cannot find any of them in this digital ocean. Perhaps they will turn up among the flotsam of my life.

Yesterday I took a hike to visit the tors of Angel Rocks. Being a Sunday, and one of the few recent days where the sun poked through the gray shroud of clouds, there were many other humans paying tribute to these ancient granite gods of the past. Families with tag-along kids, youth groups of rutting adolescents with beleaguered adult leaders trying to keep them corralled the confines of "mature" expectations. An endeavor that is about as likely of success as stopping earth from spinning or keeping one's body from growing older. 

Initially disappointed at seeing so many other humans gathered at the trailhead I waited to initiate my hike. However quickly my mind slipped into being happy that so many of my kind were also out to enjoy this beautiful day of sunshine. Young people, old people and every age between, forgoing the comfort of cell phones, television screens and pre-winter chores in order to bask in the beauty of this planet for what little time we have left.

Perhaps the title of this post is influenced by my current reading of Craig Childs book, Apocalyptic Planet.  While not necessarily a favorite book of mine, it certainly as got me thinking about geologic time and our and my insignificance in the universe. Do we have any purpose as individuals, as societies, as species or even as a planet? It seems to me that we're just flotsam bobbing on the ripples of the ocean of time.