I took The Boy fishing on the White River. The water was high and rumbled like lips on a wine jug, or maybe a flight museum if all the planes came to life, propeller thrum, etc. After watching quite a few other fisherman just casting randomly, I made sure to teach The Boy how to read a river. While books and minds are important, a person MUST know how to read a river. It’s a masterpiece, this river, I said to my son.
I said, “Son, don’t spook the water you’re about to fish. Those fish will think this canoe is a killer whale.”
I said, “Son, feel this sand (I scooped a bit from a bank); isn’t is cool and marvelous in the hand?”
I said, “Son, fish eddies and riffles and pools. If you’re just going to throw the lure anywhere we might as well be in a Wal-mart parking lot or hell, but I repeat myself.”
I said, “Son, fishing is like the act of love. When you are older, you’ll regret days you didn’t fish, not the ones you did.”
I said, “Son, let’s go light line today. Everything is ten-fold with light line.”
I said, “Son, if you’re not getting hung up on the bottom, you’re not fishing in the right place.”
I said, “Son, pass me that massive, massive beer from the Igloo cooler.”
I said, “Look, son, fools!” Ah, Memorial Day weekend…
[He said, “Dad, why is that woman naked?”]
Drunk, wet, dumb, loud, naked, often underwater. No worries, though. I enjoy the people-watching and most likely these folks (and many others we passed) did not know what they just caterwhomped themselves into. As I said, the river was high. Anyway, no matter the chaos, we caught fish the way a hole in the ground catches the glint of stars. Good times, good times.
Wow, via HTML, look what Mud Luscious Press is up to.
Everything here is way glow.
Dark Sky Magazine has a spotlight feature on this Sean Lovelace fellow.
I’m still in disbelief I signed up for:
The Toughest Road Marathon in the World
The Only Uphill Marathon in the US
6000 ft Elevation Gain
Man, fuck me. Pain…
This is Ander Monson‘s fault, basically.
OK, so I am IN TRAINING:
I am most worried about the altitude and the mountain lions. I can’t train for those factors. Anyway, I started my training today. I am going to try for primarily slow hills (I have a treadmill with grades) and LONG runs and also dark beer. I will also try to like tackle random dogs I see along the highways. Just pull over, run at the dog, and tackle the thing. I’d also like to eat at a mercantile exchange, like maybe takeout. I’d always had that urge. I’m not even sure what a mercantile exchange is, but fuck it. And I’ll be rattling more doorknobs than usual. If I see a doorknob, I will rattle that doorknob. So I warn you in advance. Are doorknobs slowly becoming extinct? I mean you see a lot of handles and metal bars and like little flippy things and electronic locks and so on, but what about a good old slobber-knocking doorknob? I wonder.
Also I will flutter my eyelids when appropriate.
Also I will AK47 my lungs in the late evenings, particularly Tuesdays.
Also I will tick.
Also I will magic rhythm my shins.
12 minutes at 2%
12 minutes at 3%
12 minutes at 4%
2 minutes at 2%
Not a bad start, good sweat. Legs should feel glow later.
Dan Chaon glows grief well here, a wigleaf Top 50. Grief as Things Fall Apart, things end (our own lives), and I can’t stop them, I can’t stop them anymore than I could stop rust or an ebbing tide or a crumbling log or a drunk and tumbling Lady Gaga or a sagging bedroom or a crumpled shirt or the moon carving itself into nothing. Look around: Things fall apart. Grief as resentment. Look at them. Look at them, in love, hobbling, hobbling, hobbling–but alive.
It’s a tone piece: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
So many writers would fuck this up. But Chaon keeps it on keel, quiet, leaves rustling…falling, mulching, into the emerging buds of…
Spring, the season, as most rude reply to death. Most rude.
Tulips and daffodils and lilacs and budding trees.
I wonder if that would make her happy, to know that the Hobblers were still around. Down the block and back, down the block and back, getting a little exercise. Maybe—probably—she would like it. “Sweet,” she would say.
As for me, I don’t know what I would prefer. I sit at the window, peering out, and I don’t know whether I want to see them, or if I hope that they will never come.
The hurt isn’t that I am going to die, dear blog reader. The hurt is that the day I die you will have a need for low-fat latte, and you will make or buy low-fat latte, and you will drink low-fat latte, and it will be a good low-fat latte.
What are you looking at?