Sometimes it feels like everyone, in juxtaposition to the bluebirds, migrates south this time of year. In a more seasonal time I did that too and now it’s hard to fight the urge… Continue reading
So instead I give you the hollow whumps of combusting pine, the smell of chamomile on cold air and the heaviness of lashes on languid lids.
Into 2017. How do you arrange your goals and resolutions? Do you have a four goal, drop down tier flow chart system like I do or something, uh, a little more relaxed?
We feel the wet potential of spring, the manic solaria of summer, the slow shedding of fall, the freeze of winter. Today, we feel those shadows inside ourselves as the north pole tilts away from the sun like a dancer pulling her body back from her own arm.
Don’t get me wrong I love the holidays to an extreme. Probably an obnoxious extreme. Like the, “Make your roommates listen to Charlie Brown Christmas while you decorate the tree, spend money on fancy cloth ribbon, expect family to be like Norman Rockwell” kind of extreme.
Butte, Montana. Look one direction, snowcapped mountains and rolling grassland. Turn around: giant, iconic, open pit copper mine. One view ugly, complicated, useless. One side beautiful, relaxing, the representation of what is best about this country. Two people with the same human-brand eyeballs could label each view the other.
Orange spots, rimmed by blue. An hot red slash across the throat. Golden scales, fading to green. My paints keep the backs of my eyelids in vibrant color even as the world outside loses it’s autumn orange and yellow and fades into the brown that comes before the snow.
A friend said at the end of September, “All I want to catch is NOT a cutthroat.” At the time, we had 16 inch fish rising indiscriminately to orange stimis and I thought, “You are fucking crazy, it doesn’t get better than this.” But getting back into fishing over here in Montana, I see what he meant.
No need to manically dance around in your pajamas to beat the winter blues when you have… fishing!