The Beautiful Method of Troubled Fish

                                                 The Art of the Beautiful Method of Troubled Fish


         Looking into my garage, it feels as if I have stumbled across the ancient tomb of some bizarre pharaoh who spent his life coveting cheap plastic and old lawn furniture. I swear some of these things must have a purpose. They’ve got to. Perhaps some day I’ll erect a pyramid and put it in an art museum with the words ‘My Legacy’ scrawled upon the wall beside a price tag that would make any honest man consider a foray into the arts.
         But for the meantime, I’m that foolish explorer who attempts to enter the crypt – or I am at least until I can recover a few artifacts. The ceiling light is broken, so for now all I can make out are the rickety silhouettes of box monsters and plasticized penguins. And I honestly pray – even though I know it to be ridiculous – that some stern guard of this temple doesn’t appear from behind a stack of old tires and thrust a spear into my side.
         And did you know that they used to recommend throwing a black cloth over ones face to stop seizures? Or something like that; I can’t really remember. I think they also used to recommend a puff of tobacco to stop an asthma attack. Whether these were commonly agreed upon methods, or just some quack publishing an underground medical journal that could be bought for the low price of three loaves of bread, I’m not sure. But nonetheless, they work towards my point:
         People are stupid.
         That’s the catch. They spend eighteen years telling you how wonderfully smart some of us are but they somehow forget to tell us that as a functional whole, we’re sincere fools. Oh, I’m not saying they don’t drop you a few clues but it’s yours to figure out.
         And where am I going with this? Not any further than to say that it was stupid of me not to clean out this garage years ago.
         But for now, I grab my bike and my fishing rod and I’m off.

         A crisp breeze begins to blow as I assemble my fifteen-dollar hook on a string on a stick. It’s the time of year to trouble fish again, that is, if you’re into that sort of thing. Something about this season drives the shambling gears of my rattling soul to reach out and grab hold of my thoughts, whispering “trouble the fish.”
         The first few casts are for pure pleasure. I truthfully hope I don’t catch anything. It would spoil the moment.
         The river isn’t wide, not more than a stone’s throw, if the man throwing the stone was a man like me and really hasn’t thrown many stones before. It’s just wide enough to lose your thoughts in. The water does look inviting but I can’t help but think that it would be too much to dip my feet in.
         Thoughts.
         And for a moment I wonder if I’m dead. It sure feels like it. If lives are borrowed, someone is going to be rightfully pissed at how much I’ve fucked up this one.
         And that’s the problem with this world. (Sorry, my thoughts have grown legs and wandered again. The ‘and’ that precedes this paragraph is just a lure for the casual reader who isn’t really following the narrative and is too preoccupied to notice a distinct change in the line of reasoning.) It doesn’t matter how correct you are, so long as you’re a bit louder or a touch more appealing than the man next to you. If you can scream, you can win. Which is bullshit. We’ve turned things into a yelling contest. What we’ve got here is a bundle of half-truths spouted off by a hundred thousand buffoons with megaphones.
         Personally, I choose to abstain but I don’t like to say that because it makes me sound like a self-righteous prick who is a little too sure of himself for his own good. So instead I give you this: I’m exercising silence like it was a fully automatic assault rifle aimed at a barrel of kerosene. It’s just blind luck that I get to piss off some fish in the process.
         That’s why I like written words. They’re silent. Or maybe they’re loud. In fact, they’re only the level at which you choose to hear them. And when something’s written out for you it’s easier to see through the tangled veil of crap that inevitably envelops any argument.

         The woods are alive this time of year - not that they're dead for the rest of the year. I mean, they're alive year round but at this time of year, they're... impassioning. Enlivening. Just as I can hear my soul driving me down to this river, I can hear the woods whispering to me, "better men have walked beneath my branches; don't think I'll tell you my secrets." But I think the forest is bluffing; it doesn't have any secrets, just a fear of dieing alone.

         I can hear the haunting echo of a shed door, creaking back in forth in the wind. But that’s not quite correct. It’s the middle of day, so it’s not really haunting and it sure as hell doesn’t echo.
         Hold on, my dog’s barking at something in the woods.

         I apologize. When I first set out to write this, I didn’t intend for it to be so piecemeal. I hadn’t thought of a way to end it either. Which is OK because nothing really needs to end because nothing really ever ends. But I had this idea that these little fishing forays were like a modern Odyssey - setting out to storm Troy and failing to return until I was much past due. I assumed the story would just fall in the same direction. But looking back upon it, I’m not really anything like Odysseus and I sure as hell haven’t had an epic journey. I haven’t surpassed any great obstacles, nor any tests of character, nor any angered gods, for that matter.
         No, these fishing trips aren’t a story. They’re just life. Who am I kidding, it’s not the Fates that have got me down here, it’s the fish. Or maybe it’s the silence, or the woods but that’s not the point. Let’s try to justify the means with a simple end. It’s all about fish. After all, any fish heading down this little trickle of water has the due responsibility to feel my wrath.
         There, a purpose:
         I am Zeus, official troubler of all fish that flow through this moment of time. And that’s all I’ve come down here for. I pack up my fishing rod head off towards home, hopefully in time to slay some suitors and win back beautiful Penelope.