Random Acts of Writing. (psst. off topic)

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philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Original Post - May 13, 2010 - 11:07am PT
Just for fun. Post up the random stuff that oozes out of your synapses.
Here is one. It just popped into my head and oout my fingers, wierd.







I had a peanut butter and banana sandwhich and I thought of you. And all the time spent in your blue canoe. Like bonobo monkeys locked in the city zoo. Exactly what else were we supposed to do?
Norwegian

Trad climber
Placerville, California
May 13, 2010 - 11:19am PT
caffeine reflections.
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 11:29am PT
I climb to where there is nothing but the wind
and all that I am is judged on a single hold
all I am holding on to is revealed
as love takes me farther than most would dare to go
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 11:29am PT
Whoa that was GOOD Anastasia.
Pate

Trad climber
May 13, 2010 - 11:36am PT
From a recent article I wrote for a fly-fishing publication:

We separated a few yards and started throwing casts up into the air, bats swooping on each one, wheeling around like miniature air sharks stirred up into a feeding frenzy. I landed the first one, the bat hit the fly perfectly and took off with it in its mouth. I stripped line in as he fluttered against the pressure, and carefully grabbed him with a bandana, untangling his feet from the tiny 7x tippet, and releasing him into the sky. K-Bomb refined the technique, and set the drag of his reel as low as it would go. The bats would take the hopper and fly away, skittering into the dark. We’d watch the line disappear upwards like it was hooked to a trout that had flown away into the starry sky before the weight of the line forced the bat to let go and it would drift earth bound in loose mends to the sage. We drank beer and laughed and cast our lines into the air for hours, fighting the little flying mice, out in the sage, in the soft fragrant, dry air, under the stars, alone in the western desert except for the slow passing of headlights out on the interstate.

The non-stop 40 hour drive caught up with me eventually and I retreated back to the bus and my lawn chair, I pulled K-Bomb’s chair over and kicked my feet up, grabbed the bowl and puffed slow clouds of blue smoke up into the night sky. I put on some Doc Watson and turned the volume down to a whisper and leaned back, my hands behind my head, turning my eyes to the sky. I focused my eyes into the light of the sign, and among the thousands of insects flitting around a larger, awkward bug appeared rhythmically, soaring in and withdrawing, soaring in and withdrawing until a bat took it in it’s mouth and spun out into the darkness. I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the electricity in the power line to the sign, the chirp of the crickets, the clatter of grasshopper wings, and every minute or so the low tone of K-Bomb talking to himself exactly as he did on the river, saying “There it is” and “That’s a hit” and “Nice bat!” as he plied the midnight sky with a ridiculous foam grasshopper at the end of a fly line, teasing strikes, fighting little bats out into the soft velvet night, the pink glow of a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Jaybro

Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
May 13, 2010 - 11:50am PT
It's time
good day for something
sometimes I get tired just smiling
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 01:17pm PT

I feel him reaching through me across time and memory. Sometimes what we leave behind meets us in the future. I can smell him in the room though it's empty. My hands shake from nervousness as I try to write. I have seen more than most but it's only one part of the story. Writing it down feels invasive, incomplete as the past burns brighter than the present. He is not here to tell his part, yet I feel his hand on my shoulder, encouraging. I feel myself shaken to the core. You are not suppose to feel the hand of a ghost as something warm and securing. I wonder again how death follows me.
TwistedCrank

climber
Ideeho-dee-do-dah-day boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom
May 13, 2010 - 01:19pm PT
I'm tripping balls.
FeelioBabar

Trad climber
One drink ahead of my past.
May 13, 2010 - 01:32pm PT
A piece I wrote for The Drake Magazine:

The Junkie: An Addiction to Streamer Fishing

He has a serious problem, this man. Some would call it a sickness. He's a junkie of the worst kind and he knows it, lying and cheating to get what he needs, reckless in the pursuit of his much-needed fix.

He is the Streamer Addict. Bunny fur and Marabou drive him wild. River. Lake. Crappy urban pond. Anytime, anywhere—when he needs it, he needs it. Casting like he's shooting a 12-gauge, his presentation is anything but delicate. Stuffing it into the rocks on the far bank. Flipping it out there. His flies hit the water like depth charges, sending feeble specimens fleeing in terror.

He serves it up simple and the fish respond like any well-evolved creature: fight or flight. You've seen him, fishing by himself, laughing, screaming, and leering at you on the water. Moving quickly around your position, you can't help but wonder what he's up to. Stripping wildly, cursing, all the while that smug-ass grin spread across his face.

The junkie covers lots of water, while you stand in the same hole for three hours. The afflicted tosses a middle finger to tradition. Sunny? Midday? Hatch? The junkie doesn't care. All day, every day, chump. His box of flies looks like a truck hit the Muppet band. He talks in tongues about "applying the voodoo," "street-fighter flashes," and "30-foot handshakes." And who wears a stripping basket on a trout river anyway?

But it's not easy, being a dedicated fiend. There are slow days, too. Tough days. Frustration. Stripping till the arm hurts. Crazy action with no hook-ups. Sticking to the guns is sometimes difficult. But then there are the other days, where the junkie's as high as a Georgia pine. He's kind of a dick, really, laughing at the sad faces you make as he strips one through the run you just flogged and then lifts the local thug out of the water to show what you missed. You ask what he's throwing, and can only muster a confused gaze when you see the size of it. "Is that a saltw#ter hook?" you stammer. "And what's with the fighting butt?" The junkie just smiles, eyes glazing.

To many, he makes no sense. Breaks all the rules. A step away from spin fishing, some say. They just don't get it. But perhaps it's better that way. Many just don't have the fortitude for the charms of streamer fishing. Best you just stick to your little bugs and 6x. As you part ways with the junkie, he flips you a five-inch fly with huge red eyes like his own. He staggers off, and with a booming laugh says, "First one's free kid, now shorten up that leader and get in there!"
Pate

Trad climber
May 13, 2010 - 01:43pm PT
feelio- tom must have loved that, nice work. hopefully he paid you in more than excuses and broken promises!
FeelioBabar

Trad climber
One drink ahead of my past.
May 13, 2010 - 01:51pm PT
He did...and thanks. Was yours for Tom as well? Good stuff. cheers.
Pate

Trad climber
May 13, 2010 - 01:59pm PT
That was for an on-line rag called "This Is Fly", check it out, www.thisisfly.com. If they were in print they would rival The Drake for coolness, very similar angles. Tom was a friend back when we both lived in Steamboat.


edit: looks like thisisfly is down right now, they may be loading the new issue.
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 02:04pm PT
Fly-errrr
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 02:54pm PT
I really like. :)
The Wolf

Trad climber
Martinez, CA
May 13, 2010 - 03:45pm PT
"Still"

If you're still, you can hear the lightening strike the wishing star as the quarter moon dances across the crimson horizon of late October.
The clouds fall, piece by piece an apocalypse for life forms of a different dimension.

When it rains, emotions evolve. At the end of and era time slows down. Investigate the wind and witness the future erupt. Reality commands a focus of illusion. Voices are barriers in the communication of thought. Words are not experience, volume is not wisdom. Time and space are important yet don't exist. Life is a paradox a confusing dilemma, but it all becomes feeling, and you can feel the thunder roll if you're still.
Pate

Trad climber
May 13, 2010 - 04:48pm PT
I think that quote continues with:

"And if we need to kill them to convince them that what they want is to be free then God has bestowed on us the right to do so as it is in their best interests. I also like turtles very much."
Chiloe

Trad climber
Lee, NH
May 13, 2010 - 05:16pm PT
Random poetry I've written lately sounds more like this.

Table 1: Mixed-effects linear regression of mean winter temperature on year (1970–2007), to estimate common and region-specific trends. Model with unstructured covariance matrix fit by maximum likelihood, based on n = 646 winter temperature means (38 years × 17 weather stations) in rural regions of nine states.
MisterE

Social climber
Across Town From Easy Street
May 13, 2010 - 05:50pm PT
Edit: This one is better...

Jazzy Woodpecker

A woodpecker that lives somewhere near
has taken up an odd habit.
It flies around to various metal objects,
tapping out its once-wooden staccato beat.
A small aluminum plate attached to a telephone pole, 3492234765,is the tinny high-hat, then
a quick flight across to the road "T" sign for a 10-minute slam of the mid-cymbal range,
so off it must be jazz.
I get out my drum, laughing
and begin to play along
Flickerbird with Ashiko accompaniment.
The little bird seems to prefer
the 10-12 fast beats with a 16-20 beat spacing.
Soon, it flies away.
I set down my drum,
thinking the show is over.
Then: From the huge steel powerline supports
above my property,
I hear the structurally amplified
and familiar rat-tat-tat-tat!
For the phonic finale:
amazing reverberation for a smallbeak's effort.

-EW, Nason Ridge 2005




Pate

Trad climber
May 13, 2010 - 06:03pm PT
Wow skipt- is that Bush speech a David Frum speech? He sure pulled that Wheatley and made it work. He's a pretty darn good writer, I read An End To Evil recently. For a conservative he's not all that bad, basically a moderate across the board. And he hates Limbaugh etc. I read the www.frumforum.com to get the other side of the story.
cowpoke

climber
May 13, 2010 - 06:20pm PT
Table 1: Mixed-effects linear regression of mean winter temperature on year (1970–2007), to estimate common and region-specific trends. Model with unstructured covariance matrix fit by maximum likelihood, based on n = 646 winter temperature means (38 years × 17 weather stations) in rural regions of nine states.
beautiful prose. for me, it was a latent variable model, today. with figures!
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