The Zen master once called obsessive thinking "the sickness of the mind," just as you describe it, "this thinking sickness," but the paradox is when the thinking process produces beautiful writing like July, 1974, it tends to heal itself, sort of like formal meditation practice often does, and just as my own gone-fly-fishing days do too, especially in my "open summer mind", out there alone on the wild, scenic river. Thanks for that gift of summer on this cold, winter morning, Walter. Tight Lines!
Thank you for bringing me into the consciousness of the walleye and the obsessive and conflicted fisherman. Thank you for sticking up for those of us who live in the middle part of the country in your recent conversation with Matt Taibibi. Are you familiar with John L Moore’s writing? He’s from eastern Montana and writes about being a modern cowboy.
The problem with thinking is you end up thinking about it. But nature brought us and all the walleyes of the world to where we are and doesn't give a shit about guilt trips. Fish or cut bait? Sounds like the former for thee...with perhaps a bit of the latter.
Great stuff, Walter. I’ve spent many years on that same river you grew up on. Your vignette reminds me of summer’s I spent canoeing that river with an old girlfriend, here’s a few lines from a poem about those days long past:
An aside and a much to do about a little fun fact something concerning Minnesota, walleye, and eating out in Minnesota, specifically Stillwater, a place I think you know.
In the last decade the increased quality and diverse types of restaurants on Main Street (and beyond) in Stillwater has been incredible. So spoiled.
Anyways, probably have a walleye din at least once a week from one of these great establishments. Learned recently, all walleye served in Minnesota cannot be from Minnesota-all from Canada. Some strange law prevents it.
What a lovely memory. In my childhood we occasionally caught walleye in the Potholes Reservoir in eastern Washington while fishing for trout. Unfailingly there was an old fisherman on the dock or at the cleaning station who would present his mangled thumb or finger or sometimes entire hand probably lost in a farming accident and claim a walleye had taken it in his youth. We never believed him but proceeded with immense caution.
Sounds to me like a catch-and-release angler. I am not too impatient to hear about the one that got away. I love how Waalton claims that walleye (he calls them pickerel like I do) generated spontaneously from pickerel weed.
The Zen master once called obsessive thinking "the sickness of the mind," just as you describe it, "this thinking sickness," but the paradox is when the thinking process produces beautiful writing like July, 1974, it tends to heal itself, sort of like formal meditation practice often does, and just as my own gone-fly-fishing days do too, especially in my "open summer mind", out there alone on the wild, scenic river. Thanks for that gift of summer on this cold, winter morning, Walter. Tight Lines!
Fishing and thinking go hand in hand. Beautifully thoughtful and reads like poetry. Thanks.
Thank you for bringing me into the consciousness of the walleye and the obsessive and conflicted fisherman. Thank you for sticking up for those of us who live in the middle part of the country in your recent conversation with Matt Taibibi. Are you familiar with John L Moore’s writing? He’s from eastern Montana and writes about being a modern cowboy.
You remind me of my love for words— especially when so wonderfully woven together.
The problem with thinking is you end up thinking about it. But nature brought us and all the walleyes of the world to where we are and doesn't give a shit about guilt trips. Fish or cut bait? Sounds like the former for thee...with perhaps a bit of the latter.
A painting of words in a paragraph I can't stop staring at, contagious.
Great stuff, Walter. I’ve spent many years on that same river you grew up on. Your vignette reminds me of summer’s I spent canoeing that river with an old girlfriend, here’s a few lines from a poem about those days long past:
The days were hot and the air filled
with yellow light.
Devil’s Chair towered above us as we drifted
south of the Dalles, hemmed in
by a steep-walled basalt gorge
before the river widened
into the meandering ore-tinted whirls
that slowly carried us past white sandbars,
where walking through knee deep mud
in an oxbow lake in dog day heat
we gave all we had
on sun-hot boulders,
flailing at black flies
as large as birds...
This is beautiful Walter... I read a few times, just lovely writing, full of surprises, emotion, color, charm. xx
An aside and a much to do about a little fun fact something concerning Minnesota, walleye, and eating out in Minnesota, specifically Stillwater, a place I think you know.
In the last decade the increased quality and diverse types of restaurants on Main Street (and beyond) in Stillwater has been incredible. So spoiled.
Anyways, probably have a walleye din at least once a week from one of these great establishments. Learned recently, all walleye served in Minnesota cannot be from Minnesota-all from Canada. Some strange law prevents it.
A beautiful score by Satie or St Saens...
I know that feeling. Beautiful writing.
Tears on a Sunday morning. But lovely tears. TY Walter.
What a lovely memory. In my childhood we occasionally caught walleye in the Potholes Reservoir in eastern Washington while fishing for trout. Unfailingly there was an old fisherman on the dock or at the cleaning station who would present his mangled thumb or finger or sometimes entire hand probably lost in a farming accident and claim a walleye had taken it in his youth. We never believed him but proceeded with immense caution.
I once did a story for the Enterprise on police Chief Darren Raney, who in trout gonzo Livingston, Montana was a walleye fisherman.
Harness the serpent with red beads and silver spinners drifting, drifting, down, draining away from the fresh water delta, toward Furmi's dragon.
Sounds to me like a catch-and-release angler. I am not too impatient to hear about the one that got away. I love how Waalton claims that walleye (he calls them pickerel like I do) generated spontaneously from pickerel weed.