Catch & Release

Some of my best friends are fly fisherman (Two happen to be Jewish, but that's inconsequential). One, dead for decades now, was an ungainly guy -- big bellied with gangly arms and legs, and eyes that fixed you sure but seemed to come from two different directions. However, put a fly rod in his hand and he became pure grace. The line he looped backwards and then slipped forward was balletic, elegant, breathtaking, even gentle. His ability to place the fly exactly where the fish would take it was a joy to watch. I say "watch" because I am not a fisherman. I don't like fish so see no point in catching them. My friends practice "catch and release" -- catch them; let them go -- but again I see no point in causing a creature panic just for the fun of it. It doesn't know it's going to be let go. It thinks it's going to die. However, as I was staring into the creek that flows in front of my house it occurred to me that I do practice catch and release, only in my own way.

Robert Frost said that a poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of anger, a homesickness, a love sickness. It is never a thought to begin with. When I walk my woods and stare at rushing water I have no words either. I listen to all the birds singing with no goal to capture them on a list. I don't care what they're called. I just want to listen. I have no thoughts but I do have a lump in my throat. I do have yearnings. My job (if one can call what I do a job) is to capture these feelings by putting words to them, to craft them and allow them to float free of me, to bring them to the attention of someone else, to share them. In this way I keep my thoughts from dying with me. I don't believe in any mystical after life experience. I believe the here and now is all I've got. Except for the words I choose. If I choose them properly they will live on beyond me. I catch my feelings, distill them, and craft a spell that sends them on their way, to you, I hope. When I write a book or a screenplay external factors, lots of them, are involved. But these blogs are written for the pure pleasure of writing them, for the freedom I felt as a little boy rolling down a grassy hill and smelling spring onions as I mashed them on the way. Of course, having spent my life as a professional writer I do believe in an audience out there somewhere. I don't believe writers who profess not to care what other people think of their work. Of course, I care, but these blogs are not written for the same reason as the work for which I sometimes get paid. They begin as a lump in the throat, not a pitch, not a log line, not a query letter. For me they begin as something deep and mysterious. They come from somewhere and must mean something, but I don't know what until I catch them, process them, and let them go. The mystery, however, never goes. I continue to believe in the deep and mysterious, but only in all too rare moments do I catch a whiff of what it is. Only then.

My Bucket List

Ah, me! Can't ignore those tell-tale signs one minute longer. My meal invariably winds up on my shirt. Whoops, my fly is open. I'm driving down the road when I suddenly realize I don't remember where I'm going or even where I am. My handwriting has gotten so scribbly that if I handed it to the clerk at a Chinese laundry she'd give me three shirts with starch. I say "Huh?" a lot. Fine. I get it. I've already lived longer than I'm going to live. What is there left to do that I haven't yet done? Well, I'd like to eat an entire lemon meringue pie without having to chase it with a dozen Tums. I'd like to see the Yankees play the Red Sox at Fenway Park. I'd like to win a Tony. I'd like to see old friends. Other than that there's not too much left that I want to do. It's been a great life, and I've packed a whole lot into it. So, that leaves me with the Phucket List -- those things I don't give a good goddamn about no more no how. The guy behind me thinks I'm driving too slowly? Kiss it, buster. Safe sex? I guarantee you it could not be safer. Standing in lines? No way, not even for the hottest ticket in town, especially for the hottest ticket in town. You think I'm not hip? I'm not. So what? I will never ever own a smart phone, I-phone, android, whatever. It's taken me a lifetime to get over feeling dumb, and I'm not going to go back to feeling stupid now. What else? I refuse to multi-task. For millenia religions have preached the mystical state of union, of one-ness, of being present in the moment. Be Here Now. So, at this stage of the game I'm going to trust a corporate shill who preaches doing at least three things at once, preferably, seven or five or six or ten? That's actually the first thing on my list. No way will I talk on the phone at the same time I'm checking my bank balance, texting, streaming a video, and making a list for the market. Come to think of it, I'm not going to text at all. That leaves me with the concept of Authority although authority figures have been a problem for me ever since. I've tried to cover it up.You're an authority? Prove it. Or lose it. This inability to hide my disdain has plagued me for a lifetime. There have been isolated situations in which I tried, but the sneer which appears on my face is a dead giveaway. I think I'm smiling and giving rapt attention. But, completely on its own, my upper lip curls. My eyes narrow. Contempt is the operative word, and now, finally, at this stage of the game, I no longer care to be polite at all.

Last year a huge buck collided with my front end and turned my car into an accordion. It was mating season, and he'd been so focused on chasing a doe he forgot to look both ways, or any way. The insurance company classified my car as a "rolling total" which meant it still went forward if you gave it gas. It took me two weeks to get another vehicle. In the meantime, I wasn't about to drive my junker any where except I ran out of food and was forced to motor to the market. I bought supplies and headed home at thirty miles per hour with my blinker lights flashing. A state policeman pulled me over. I was pissed. Who needed this? You know that maddeningly slow, cocky walk they do from police cruiser to your driver's side window? By the time he got there I was not one bit happy. "License and registration," he said.
                        "What'd I do?" I wanted to know.
                        "License and registration," he repeated with an edge to his voice. Hey, if you're asking for my credentials I have the right to know what I did. Besides, he was so young he looked like he was still in high school. So,
                        "What'd I do?" I repeated. He pushed his face closer to mine and asked,
                        "Do you have an attitude?"
                        "No," I said with a half grin, "I'm too old to have an attitude."
But, the bald truth is, I still do.