Its like yr going fishing & 4 a while u dont ctch anything but it dosnt mater bc u mite & then aftr a while wham it maters bc this is so boring & y am I doing this?
So do u go thru that again evry time u go fishing or do u find a way 2 exploit the early part - Wonder, Expectation, Feeling Thoughtful & forget the rest?
& what if only Wonder, Expectation, Feeling Thoughtful hav a claim on u yr time & fuk the rest yr busy u hav standing comittments w/ them u hav appts?
I. Looking at the wipers I have
dreams of fresh rotoscopy,
new sciences of movement born of love and spindles in the future
when animals were love, somewhere back there
by the engine heaps of carp, trout, pike, bass—empty buckets,
dad took me fishing and
I thought maybe I have
something to learn like how to put a lid on it, the compound kind of polyethelene
airtight seal
on sloshing liquids or
I got so bored listening sometimes;
he liked to explain about fishing
and silence he explained a lot about, its being like fishing and other likenesses
building and fishing, painting
and fishing,
iterating dotted grids
and fishing,
with a fine rapidograph on no-bleed…things like that, all things
he did, which
being actual you would think had some stability and purchase in our father-
daughter discourse, at least on its surface, even
when the latter whipped out its water legs, and superfine, and dimpling slid but
that we actually cast
there at Sea Cove Pond seemed some most minor
coda in small print like
what the people we were watching
watch TV were watching on TV in the morning, this being one
occasion fishing so fishing and self-like I
forgot which lures were lake lures, the harlequin ones I hoped
II. All parts of nature wear their processes outside, like a bicycle:
bugs, fish, trees, pollination. This is true
not after one or two casts but even before,
as we’re loading up the car I think
sometimes he thinks I’m touched like Jodi Foster in that movie
I can fish but not remembering how to when I look
into the plausible,
I’m wrong when I go with him to the pond
Lake
Lake I mean, it’s like it’s wrong
to keep in mind a rank of big and little apertures along the rod it’s like
pedantic. When
I try remembering what it means, from which
direction, when I try to
be instructed by the papillary spirals, when I try to think about the camel and a
finger in the bible I am
ready to believe in such calamities as water being skin or oil, a darker liquid than
it is, or a darker gel, inane like that
divinely boring perversities that never…struck it.
Nothing, we get nothing, an imp I conjure, a snatcher who levitates all the fish
before us, before we glide there pitches them,
conductor-like, in some more insensate
part of water: a third
outside part. This action, general and
airborne as it is still shakes some bells,
the liveliest assurance of a thaw here, hues of teal so total sports equipment
outlets glitter with embarrassed clear;
on our way there it could definitely rain, definitely
rain on our way home.
