Excuse my while I pour the first cup. The burbling is done.
I would seem that after 875 months I would have had some things figured out and would not need these nocturnal "What if sessions" with myself. It's amazing for a guy to remember with absolute clarity the details of what should have been done (and maybe wasn't) about a situation 397 months ago, but not have a clue where the reading glasses are presently hiding. And they do hide.
The stark realization is that the boat has left port and the only thing one can do is wait. Photos have for the most part been taken, although there are probably a few thousand still out there waiting for me. Bills pile up as a fixed income gets more and more fixed and the inflation bugs grow fatter with every passing of a new bill in congress. Self serving power builders continue to suck the vibrancy out of a once great economy in efforts to change an already proven system. For what end is the consecration of their own self importance and the deminishment or ours.
In Cory Ford's "Road to Tinkhamtown" he speaks of his own demise, doing what he was put on earth to do, and how he expected to handle the last chapter. It was his peace. It's not a dark piece, but a peaceful piece which needs to be read slowly whilst sitting on a stump in the big woods or on the end of a dock somewhere listening to the lap of the waves as the only accompaniment.
Or maybe even at five AM in the morning when the ambien has worn off. And who else could so butcher the English language as to use some form of the word "Peace" four times in one sentence.
Usually, when I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about something, over which I probably have no influence whatsoever, I go to the big lake and relive some fishing experience. That generally gets me back to a least an hour or two of fitful sleep. Not today! Evidently.
If I simply set my mind's eye to the water at the edge of the dock from which I depart and cast thoughtful eye to the lure or fly of my choosing, I start to drift. The water, at the edge, is the color of a short glass of a light fine scotch whiskey. Clear with a little tint of taste. And cold. The sky is overcast at this hour and a dark fly like a red grey ghost is chosen.
Fly lines are usually of a color which can be seen by the angler. They could be yellow, green, or even orange. At any rate the dropping of a fly at the side of a boat departing the dock and the extension of a fly line through ever darkening water lends exquisite anticipation. The whole connection is made visible from fly through leader to the line. The water moves from the light scotch to a fuller Bourbon born of age old oak barrels. Many a land lock salmon has come to feed in such back of the bar shades. Finally, the India ink of the depths take over and the spell is broken only by the "Put put" of the small outboard.
An expanding lake lies before me with more exploration to be done. And so another day begins here in Shangra La south.
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