Autumnal Baptism

The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
Gazing intently, I behold the form.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

I ease up my rifle, my soul is stirred.
My cheek rests on walnut, scratched and warm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I whisper “Quiet!”, though my voice is slurred.
Deep inside my chest there rages a storm.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My heart is aflutter, like some startled bird.
Where once there was control, chaos is the norm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I regain my senses and my confidence gird.
I kiss gently the trigger and death’s rites perform.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My quarry stricken, my senses are blurred.
To eons of tradition, I willingly conform.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

On Finding (and Keeping) the Kindred Spirits

It is 2:00 A.M. on a Thursday night. I don't have class tomorrow (thankfully), but there is no real reason why I should be up. I am awake largely because I have been thinking. Many college students, like myself, would be shutting down the bars about now. In recent days I've asked myself, why not do the same? Why not use that means to broaden my network of friends? You see, things change once you graduate from college. Friends that once were as thick as thieves move off, live their lives, and become pleasant memories. That, for me, is a tough pill to swallow. I suppose that it would be naive of me to think that anything else would happen, but I did regardless. Again, I am the begrudging slave to nostalgia.

Perhaps what has deprived me of sleep most is the sense that I have missed out on spectacular opportunities. I refer specifically to those opportunities to deepen and improve such bygone friendships. In looking back on my undergraduate years it is apparent that I had the blessing of being friends (sometimes only an acquaintance) with a host of truly exceptional individuals. It is an unforgivable shame that for many our friendship have withered and all but died. One must not allow such rare gifts to lay fallow in the field!

Now, having "conquered" my undergraduate goals I am in quite a different position. Freer, perhaps, but less socially capable due to my somewhat limited exposure to new social groups. All of my life I have been a proponent of quality over quantity---the Taurus, the ISTJ, the traditionalist. Yet now it seems that those quality relationships that I so gladly nurtured have been whisked away on a southernly wind. What is the thinking man to do?

I mentioned previously the consideration of taking a foray into the bar scene. I say that knowing well that such an affair would be a lost cause. My biases and my dislikes run far too deep for any real attempt at such. No, I will always dislike the drunkard, the crowded room, the coarse individual and the stench of cigarette smoke. No amount of nostalgia will ever change that.

The viable alternative is then the religious group. But, again, this poses some problems as well. While I have never felt truly unwelcomed by any Christian organization, the comfort level certainly varies. With any group (religious groups are no exception) there are always expectations to be met. Most of them are apparent, but many others are unspoken and bear the true weight of acceptance. Christians are for the most part a loving lot and one that is well-intentioned. I preface this next statement by saying that is does not apply to all such groups. They also can a be a cliquish, judging lot. I have participated in numerous such groups throughout my life and while some were indeed enjoyable and productive, many compromised the person for the sake of the Christian. What I mean by this is that one could not discern the true personality of the individuals in the group, rather, they were reflective of the group-think of the establishment.

In retrospect it appears that I have alienated both the social drinkers and the conservative Christians in this article. That certainly wasn't my intention. But the question still remains, what is the thinking man (or woman) to do? Are the days of the intellectual-social group all but gone from our society?

Having lived in a city of five years now I am well aware that my days of continual wilderness rambling have all but disappeared. There will be no more basking in the grandeur of the wilderness every day. Such a pleasantry makes solitude not only tolerable, but enjoyable. This is not the case of the city life. One may very well sit under the bows of a pine and hear the secrets of life pass o'er until the sun bids adieu, but the same person cannot do such in an apartment devoid of the beauty of nature.

Fundamentally, I feel that my problems boils down to two aspects of my personality: (1) a radically different perception of value than my peers and (2) an unwillingness to compromise on those things that I believe strongly about. Whether that makes me a philosopher or a fool I will not speculate, but it does put me in an unique situation.

One half-hour later, I still don't have the answers that I sought to find. Such answers never do come easily. Yet, the process of self-exploration through writing holds a great value to any person who observes life through the lens of self-reflection. Until next time,

Be true to your work, your word, and your friend.

Zombie Survival Sheet

Choices, choices...

Jock O'Braidosly, A Hunting Tale

I have made two videos in two days! This has to be some sort of record!

College Apartment/The Coming of Autumn/She Moves Through the Fair

The Golden Window

The manner in which one is wakened each morning has a tremendous impact on the way that the day proceeds. Too many of us, unfortunately, are awakened by the obnoxious buzz of an alarm clock or the overbearing tones of a clock-radio. As a result, our days reflect these annoyances. Instead of revealing the smiles that we all keep veiled we snarl and stare and approach life as one whose very existence is an inconvenience to nature. Yet, life does not have to be this way.


I am a great connoisseur of slumber. I rarely have trouble sleeping and make the most out of each opportunity to do so. Yet, Thoreau reminds me that “It is unwise to keep the head long on a level with the feet.” As usual, he is correct. Given the stark settings of the city and its bothersome noises I tend to shut myself up in my abode and sleep until the latest possible hour. But in the country where nature provides the apparatus for waking, there is a different tale to be told.
This morning I lay nestled in my bed, swaddled in comfortable quilts and resting with great peace. I awoke with joy like few people have the opportunity to do. This was my gift from September. The breeze that caressed me as I slumbered told me a story that few people can narrate. Nature is changing. She is coming!
Now, I know that in my pseudo-mystical nature-child rambling I have completely lost you. “She” is the one. Earlier today I would have said that she was my (and many others’) mistress. But, after deeper contemplation that simply would not be befitting. In fact, it is potentially blasphemous. “She” is more than mere words can relate: a muse, a mentor, a lover, a provider. She is the enigma of inspiration, motivation, admiration and adoration.
She is fall. She is coming.





Nature does not tell lies. I have sworn by this and have been called idiotic on several occasions for saying it. The morning breeze today brought the song of a new season from afar. It foretold of change, and beauty, and long-awaited promise. This breeze was tinged with the spirit of ripening apples, of curling chimney smoke, of shaking corn husks and of the song of flights of geese. Likely many of you were up much earlier than I was this morning and did not discern any of these qualities. Nature may not lie to you, but she does dabble in the art of subtlety. Sure, it is 95 degrees now and the sun still beams with an inescapable intensity. Regardless, the wind continues to whip and the secrets of autumn hang like awaiting birds over the crop ready for harvest.





Besides the wind, what else foretells the coming fall? Why, my demeanor, of course! Had I not been rousted by the rejuvenating gale this morn I would like many others stomp and demean the very ground that I walked upon. Summer to me is like a family relative that while not disliked, must be tolerated with some difficulty. No longer! Let them be gone on to greener pastures! My domain is now my own.

Bend the Bow: An Archer's Paean

This is an older poem that I thought need resurrected. I wrote it in October of 2009 and thought that with the approach of archery season it would be appreciated.





An Archer's Paean

Timber, slender and elegant---
Refined by man's reverent hands!
How I love to see thee flex under steely grey skies!

Wood-grain---
A thousand stories in one piece of maple!
How thy arc moves my soul!

Sinew, resonating and alive---
Make this stave reverberate once more!
How thy sweet twang sings to my ears!

Feathers, barred and crisp---
An eager bird perched upon the shaft!
How thou guidest my wishes!

Vision, sharp and true---
My very existence focused on one point!
How the weary world leaves my mind!

Arms, brawn and might---
Bend the form to my design!
How thou drawest the world into perspective!

Impact, distinct and remarkable---
Fulfill the purpose of my endeavor!
How thou gladden my heart!

Quarry, sacred and divine---
God has given thee to me!
How thy death brings life!

In archery, all of life and death is witnessed.
Breath for breath, hunter and game entwine!

On Summer & Flyfishing

The Oklahoma summer is a broiler searing all life. I am not hot; I am denatured. Is it truly worth going outside? The rational mind says no, but there is an oasis that beckons. A farm pond breaks the monotonous landscape and parts the crackling sea of dried grass.

Willows! They are my summer friends. They know what others do not, that when Hyperion rises high in the noon hour that there is still refuge to be sought. I step into the mossy shallows and fry scatter like olive missiles seeking a distant shore. My ankles sink into the oozing grime and I am instantly refreshed. Mind you, not in the manner of a frosted glass of lemonade; I am refreshed because I have found a place of comfort and of (arguable) productivity even during nature’s harshest tantrum.

With straw hat atop my head and bamboo rod in hand I smirk at what I must look like; an absurd westerner’s attempt to recreate a Vietnamese farmer tramping through a rice paddy. I am after fish, not grain, so once I commit fully and venture waste deep in my wilderness spa I begin to whip and weave my rod through the air and miraculously my fly falls perfectly. It skitters and dances as I bring in line—a hapless grasshopper frantically treading water. Then, with the stealth of a prowling leopard, an iridescent sunfish flies from the underwater jungle of a weed-bed, calls my bluff, and mauls my fly in a violent splash. Of course in my listless contemplation I am taken completely unaware by this occurrence and heave my rod, knee-jerk style. My yellow popper whizzes by my head, missing by the smallest of margins. I see the perch fly back into the jungle in a flash of gold, orange and yellow. The leopard has shown the “Great White Hunter” who is the true predator.

Pumpkinseed Sunfish
http://www.dictionaryoffish.com/freshwater_fish_directory.htm

Undeterred I once again wave my rod towards the cover and I don’t even have time to blink—the panfish is incensed and swallows my fly whole. This time I manage to arc my rod correctly and feel the surge of the fish on the line. I forget the heat. I forget my allergies. I forget where I am. All that I know is that I am locked with something powerful beyond reason. This tiny fish, ounce for ounce, is unfathomably determined. I manage to bring him to bear without capsizing myself (quite a feat) and behold him in the August sun. What a trophy! The sheen and color of a sunfish outshines any bird of paradise. I gently lower him back into the depths and he parts company hastily. I continue my antics until dusk. Somehow, despite it all, I have found my own small paradise.

If you want to try your hand at panfishing, this is one of the most productive patterns ever. I think I paid .35 cents a piece for mine (I bought them in bulk).



[Picture from D's Flies http://www.dsflies.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=66]