to take care of her son’s oedipal impulses.
I’ve tried my luck in the hole I should call homewaters, and had no luck with the trouts which I suspect were a. not that comfortable with tea-hot water, b. chasing small roaches in the borders. The critters were jumping like mad, and the occasional splash did not look like it was caused by a perch.
Lacking the proper lure, I caught a couple of roaches and tried to enjoy the meteors, like they say they do in the books. Most of the time I suspect it’s just face-saving bullshit, but yesterday was special. Zeus launched a full fledged grandiose show at sunset. Just before it started, the light already some magic in it.
All I missed was a couple of rises.
In case you missed it when I posted it on g0necasting, ages ago, here’s again that delightful little rhyme by Hans Christian Andersen.
OH, WERE I RICH!
“Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea such
When hardly three feet high, I longed for much.
Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,
With sword, and uniform, and plume so high.
And the time came, and officer was I! But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me! Have pity, Thou, who all man’s wants dost see.
“I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,
A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,
I at that time was rich in poesy
And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;
But all she asked for was this poesy. Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me! As Thou dost know, who all men’s hearts canst see.
Finding solace in poetry is what my mind does every time my heart aches at contemplating the inaccessible beauties of the world. A typical instance would be when I’m building a new rod, which I am — a really neat 4# from MHX, knowing already I’ll have to pair it with my antediluvian Loop plastic thing, of great lightness but subpar operation and ugly looks.
The still-unborn rod whispers to my ears: don’t try to look innocent, you know very well what would suit me…
I hear the voice of an unfinished rod. I think I’m possessed.
As the saying goes, there’s a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot. Actually it’s not a saying but a Steven Wright one-liner, but I think it’s good enough to pass as a saying.
Anyway, yesterday with Julien I guess we’ve been on the wrong side of the proverbial line. It was literally pouring on us, and we caught so close to bugger all that I’m not going to further the humiliation by describing the absurdly small roach each of us got as a reward for his pains.
Except mine was a good half inch bigger.
Rather unrelatedly, google image’s sense of à-propos never ceases to amaze me. Ask it for anything not too obvious, like “absurdly small roach”, and you get a world of visual poetry. Like this picture, that I find quite appalling, even though I’d be hard pressed to say what’s in it.