A Million Kisses

First posted 3-7-04

"I was thinking of a Million Kisses On Your Skin"
- I.Q.

(honestly, I'm not sure that is the direct quote, but it is definately the gist)

This is the specific time of year that twangs the stringed memories of my youth. First thing in the morning when I step out the door. The cool air washes over my skin. That particular spring cool air. Cool, but promises some heat, a tide of sunlight, a few wisps of clouds and a sky bluer than you can believe. Standing there, about to slip the key into the lock when I feel the windy kisses on my neck. The wind, and I remember my youth. Mornings like this, so many times I have risen early and taken my rod in my hand and headed to a hidden beachhead on a suburban lake, timeless and quiet. Those days of my youth, when I would stand for 12 hours a time, cast and pop for dinkers, and go the entire day in one spot without saying a single word. I knew each rock like they were verses of the Bible. I only realize now how magical and immense those times were. Day after day, the entire summer gone in that peace. Hell, out on the water before the fish even rose after the thaw. Just to be on the waterside, to feel the wave-cooled wind slip off the lake, heavy with spray. To burn my skin under the raw sun. To end the day my hands reeking of fish and scum. My shoes, my shins, my fingernails covered with mud. My legs peppered with mosquito bites. Oh, if only I could have the same times now when I can properly appreciate the peace and peace of mind of those days. Now I only have the memories brought to me the temperature of the air, the time of day, the wind kissing my exposed skin.

I haven't had a rod in my hands in almost 3 years now. Haven't touched my fly rod in almost 5. The fly rod was my style of choice. Even at the time I knew how zen-like, how beautiful it was. So long, so slender. It danced, even for me. I have the worse cast in the world. I tie my leader in knots, can't cast for distance to save my life. A real fly fisherman would cringe at my technique. But I love that rod so much. It's the type of thing that I feel good to do it, no matter how bad I am.

Some people suggest I find some places around here. There are a few I think, but I haven't looked into it. Fact is, to really do it right I have to go someplace a lot; get to know the features. The layout. The face of it like it was a woman. But I don't have the time for it now-in-days. To show up for a couple hours, line a few casts, it would be a farce. A stolen season. And I can't take that. Maybe someday I'll be able to fish the way I want to. It's so much more spiritual to me than just about anything I do short of playing guitar or writing a story. Other people just don't understand.

Last night I drank much more than I intended to. Which means I had a lot more fun than I intended to. In retrospect, switching from beer to White Russians was a mistake. But all beer tasted funny, so I needed something. Unfortunately, the Lunch Paper makes the single strongest White Russian your mind could possibly comprehend. Good though. Plus Phillip was there. Great guy, has a tendency to buy drinks. Once people start buying me drinks, I start drinking, start buying other people drinks, get myself drinks along the way, and it all just escalates. Some people were seriously worried that I couldn't drive home. I knew I could make it. Only a couple of blocks, nothing real dangerous, and I kind of gave myself the straight line test which I had no problems with. Drove home no problem. Then sitting in my chair I start to get the feeling that I was really drunk, almost to the point where I shouldn't have driven right then. Weird, but I knew at the time I would be fine. Maybe it was sitting still that did it. I'm a little unnerved, but I have to believe that I know myself enough to know my limits. I'm very good at that, remarkablely self-aware. But despite what Theresa thought, I wasn't drunk. She's never seen Drunk Patrick. I was tipsy, but not drunk. And I will forever remember two things from that night. First, Phillip has Pac-Man SKILLZ. Guy can play. Second, John's line when we started talking about Queer Eye For the Straight Guy (which I have never seen).

"I don't watch that shit. I only watch John Wayne movies and porn."

At which point I promptly told him to shut up because that stuff constitutes a pretty good portion of my viewing (well, maybe not statistically significant, but definately there).

Not to say the evening was riproareous. Fact is, it was pretty boring for the most part. The Globe and upstairs at Transmet were uneventful. Things started to pick-up when we went to Lunch Paper and by the time we got to City Bar I was having a pretty good time. Strangely enough, that coordinates with the time I switched to White Russions. A connection? In any event, we left a quarter after 2. The lights were up and they cut the music at 2. I'd like to believe that I closed the bar out. In which case it was the first time I have done that. I'm somewhat proud of that.

Well, two more movies and I get to go home. Don't know how I'm going to get everything done this week that I need to do. I may have to let something drop. But I'll do my best. God, what a long fucking week to look forward to.