There is so much that needs to be written, at least from my perspective. Observations from the stream and vice, inspiration from mundane events that enhance and benefit my angling skill and pleasure. There are things inside me that yearn to be free, to flow out and fly, like a beautifully tyed dry-fly. NOT!
Don’t visualize what your reading in the days and weeks ahead as a scene where there’s beautiful birds deftly flitting and cavorting among the trees of some mystical orchard, trees laden with ripe luscious fruit, while buxom maidens frolic in the lush grass, giggling and hiding from swarthy farm boys bare-chested and lean. Wait that’s a bit much isn’t it? Anyways,,,,,,, that which I do isn’t dainty at all and it ain’t done so peacefully.
Not like a that graceful bird or a flower petal flitting and waltzing in the breeze. No, no, no. More like a drunken bar fly, sloppy and disgusting, often unruly, with little to no regard for all that might be affected. Sometimes erupting from my head like that drunk being ejected from a bar, head first, sailing out and onto the page with a dull thud,rolling and scuffed to rest in the gutter. filthy and bloody. The trophies may be a broken nose, a missing tooth, a torn shirt , or a soiled pair of pants. My musings are seldom intact, mostly disjointed and wobbly.
That’s just how it is, I guess I could try to remedy that but I have an aversion to sterile things. I prefer stuff dirty and used, usually stained and a bit torn. I like my print like I like my meat, raw and bloody, a hint of what was once alive, swirling around in the gravy. Mixed with the blood and fat are the ancient stories, ones of love and loss, fight and survival, jammed next to those of loss and sorrow, lack and need. There’s the triumph of victory and conquest, the satisfaction gained from plunder and pillage right along side the unobtainable or the grief caused by having something so cherished and desired ripped swiftly and ruthlessly from your grip.
I am seldom satisfied with what I write. Usually if I like it, the writing is fragmented and wordy, written for my satisfaction. it’s witty and self depreciating, inside jokes abound and are usually carefree and without pretense. I am not one to “gussy up” what needs to be said, notice I said need. What I write isn’t going to save your life or make wads of happy sunshine shoot up into your keaster, so don’t take what I write as life saving pearls of wisdom from some sage old fart. While we’re on the subject of need, I do not struggle to find the need to speak. I can be urged by others or as often as not I revel in the desire to hear myself . Yah I’m full of myself, always have been and always will be. It’s my nature. Don’t really care.
Please don’t mistake it for disrespect or as meant to be offensive, I’m not that deep. I’m Like Popeye “I yam what i yam and that’s all that I yam!” If you are still with me here, Welcome! there’s more to come. I don’t know if it will be anything at all like what was written above. In fact I can guarantee it. Most of what is ahead of us here is general observations I make on the river, or at the vice. I’ll be sharing my techniques, the rivers I fish, and the flies I tye, especially the flies I tye. out there in the webisphere I am known as the “fly tyin freak”, it’s an apt name. I do get a bit wild with my patterns and the fact that I have ADD and at 48 am still a bit hyperactive makes it really hard for me to stick to a strict pattern. Most of my flies are done with what I call the “freakstyle” approach. I use whatever material I have at hand or think might make a better substitute………………….
