An armed robber tried to carjack two cars in Florida

Both drivers pulled out their guns and stopped him:

Police say a man who tried to carjack two people was thwarted after the victims both pulled out guns to protect themselves.

According to Fox 30, Jacksonville police officers arrested 36-year-old Christopher Raymond Hill, charging him with strong-arm robbery, carjacking with firearm or deadly weapon, aggravated battery with a deadly weapon and trespassing.

Don't mess with Florida.

Top shelf snark

BREAKING: 9th Circuit Court orders Kim Jong Un to continue his development of nuclear weapons.

— Mike Pampeo (@SecOfState70) June 12, 2018

LOL.

Wave

I notice that Google has no doodle for Flag Day.  No surprise.

A Father's Life - A Brigid Guest Post

One thing I made sure was working properly on my last visit out was Dad's chair that lifts him up to the standing position, then, he can lean into it and gently have it sit him back down (and I have to say the DeBeers Diamond  "three months salary" marketing staff have nothing on the folks that sell furniture for older folks).

He loves it, one more thing to help him stay in his home. He recovered from his stroke a few years back better than anyone thought, but he now has a hard time standing and sitting without a little help.  Every morning, he gets up and gets settled in it and reads the daily message from "Our Daily Bread" and then the Bible.  That's something he's done every day since retirement after his morning work out (Dad was a Golden Glove Boxer and still has a very strict exercise regiment that included swimming and Nautilus at the Y with my Step Mom well into their 80's).  Then it's time to get dressed and get about enjoying the day. At 98, he's had some setbacks, and been hospitalized a couple times for infections, but he seems to bounce back pretty well.

But we had one scare, he woke in the middle of the night after dreaming of a home break-in (the house was secure) and called 911.  He then couldn't get out of bed due to a sudden dizzy spell and police broke the door down. They found him having a medical issue and got him an ambulance to the hospital. Bless them for their response and handling of him, as it was really scary for him.  He now has 24-hour care, still refusing to live with family who'd love to have him.

My favorite photo of Dad, taken when he was 92.

Actually, I checked the chair out when he was sleeping in one day, it's quite comfortable and seems to be built better than some of theexpensive yuppie furniture that I used to own.

But dang, I was hoping for an auto-launch feature that would get me airborne. 

Initiate Launch Sequence!  (that's it??)

The family room, where the chair is housed, has barely changed since I was in sixth grade.  My parents built it onto the house over what was most of our huge cement patio.  We took a vote as a family one year when I was in grade school. Vacation to Hawaii with the kids (the parents had already gone on their 25th anniversary alone) or add on a family room?  The kids decided it.  Family room!  We can play!  We can make noise.  We can spill stuff!  We can take the TV set completely apart with tools while they're at the grocery store (oh, dang, busted)

It has the previous living room carpeting down over the original harvest gold linoleum now and the drapes have been updated.  But much is unchanged. The 1970's fixtures for the fluorescent lights that Dad crafted by hand. Still there. That Mexican hat on the Wall?  A VERY embarrassing River dance gone South episode from some tap recital of mine.  The barre built into the wall where I did my ballet warm-ups was removed and replaced with paneling.  It was there under the kitchen window that Mom once took out with a golf ball from the backyard when that was the back window to the house. Fore! (hey, I didn't know Mom knew that other word!)

On the walls are funny tin signs and Montana art.  On another wall are numerous awards and mementos from the community and  Uncle Sam, every single member of our family - Mom, Dad, brothers, sister, serving in Defense, Local or Federal Law Enforcement or the Armed Forces, with the Air Force and Navy battling it out for the best space. And the picture of Jesus, which has witnessed slumber parties, ping pong games (we'd set the table up inside in the winter) Loony Tunes, and probably cursing during that 1983 Minnesota-Nebraska college game.

The couch is new, but the quilt is one my Mom crocheted in the 70's.  There is another one, but it sits in my linen closet at the Range, where I can occasionally hold it, smell the scent of Chanel No. 5 that only exists in my memory.  It's where I can remember her hands working away on it while we kids watched westerns on TV and tried to outshoot Marshall Dillon with our little cap guns under the watchful eye of our Lord.

We've made just a few changes in the house.  The main bathroom, tub and shower were outfitted with handles and bars and a shower chair for ease of bathing. The waterbed was replaced with a quality regular mattress that makes it easier for him to get out of bed, but with a heated mattress pad so it's warm through the night.

The small bath by the family room, though, was in dire need of help.  It was always the "utility" bathroom, old faded paint, bare window, no storage at all, and small and hard to get around in as there was nothing for him to hold onto if his balance or strength waned.  But it's the one he uses the most.

Before he died, Big Bro took care of the construction and I took care of the  paint and the decorating.

Still, with a full-time home health aide I arrange and lawn service that comes weekly I am happy he can stay in his home. He originally said he wanted to move in with me when my Step Mom was diagnosed with cancer and I bought an old money pit of a big house on some property with a view of a small lake, a single story, no steps, "mother in law set up" outside of town, the original "Range." I hoped he'd be happy there. But she went into remission, with great thanksgiving, but was then diagnosed with Alzhemers.

He cared for her in his home through that, until her death, years more than we expected, but not easy years for him.  But as she was his cross, she was also his salvation and he refused to put her in a nursing home, even when she acted out in anger against her children, not recognizing her own life, but somehow, always recognizing him.

But after she was gone, he changed his mind. His Mom was from Indy, and he enjoyed it there, but he didn't want to leave where he's lived all these years.  He wanted to stay where his memories are, good or bad, in his own church, in that old house.  I  understood and sold the place I had bought, at a loss, but one I gladly bore.

This is the home in which his memories reside, in every furnishing that's 30, 40, 60 years old.  There have been other houses, for summer vacations and the old family home in Montana, but this modest little place was always the center of the family.  Outside, is the bed of my Mom's rose garden, replanted with other flowers now, yet still containing for him, those pink and red and coral buds and blossoms, long after they've fallen to dust, no more dead to him than the hands that tended them, the drops of blood they sometimes drew.

In that family room, he sits in his recliner and watches his favorite sports, while around him are the artifacts of loves never lost,  triumphs and defeats, as well as the living laughter of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Not one of them are related to him by blood, but by the strongest bond - family.

My room at home is virtually unchanged and that was not by my request, but his will. Photos of family and family and extended family all around.  The rainbow I painted on my walls in junior high. Dad said I could, but I had to use leftover paint which is why my rainbow is every shade of totally tacky 1970's paint we had.  (yes, we had rooms painted those colors!)

There is no view. There used to be a view of beautiful mountains, but they are hidden from where we sit by tall, big box marts. He refused to sell when they literally bought up several blocks, RE-zoned residential and commercial, so we look out the windows to the vast walls of a commercial business, their parking lot lights illuminating the place like Attica Prison during a break. Curtains keep the light out at night, sort of.  Dad realizes the value of the home just went to zip, but he doesn't care. It's his home,  it's our home.  It's where we lived, and it's where he will pass, hopefully and quietly in his favorite chair, his Bible open and a can of cold beer waiting for when the game is called.

He knows his days are short, we all do. But he's very happy, lousy view and all. The pastor comes and gives him communion regularly.  His neighbor's have him over for meals and their children come and play board and card games with him.   I fly out as often as I can, becoming an expert on the cheap air fares (how many stops?)  My step brother and his wife drive three hours to take him to lunch. My cousin Liz drives up from California several times a year (her partner's family live an hour from Dad).  Liz and I oversee his bills and such, removing that responsibility after he sent thousands to shyters that prey on the elderly.

But he's happy. He has friends, good ones, but new ones, as all of his original group has passed on. He still works out each day, including an exercise bike and he eats very well with a hot meal daily from the sweet ladies that are his home health aides and the snacks and small meals I leave for him in little freezer containers between visits.

Around the house are small sayings, quotes that mean things to him, verses from the Bible.  "This is the Day the Lord hath Made, Let us Rejoice and Be Glad in It" is one that always makes me think of him. Each day is a gift from the Lord, he says, and I can't disagree.

I can't say what the future will bring, but one thing my brother and I both agreed on before he left us. Dad has outlived two beloved wives and two children (he and Mom lost a baby when they were first married) and I'm going to fight to make sure he does not experience any more loss of what he holds dear.

- Brigid

Ah, but the year is yet young

pic.twitter.com/apxDVuosiU

— Sal the Agorist (@SallyMayweather) June 12, 2018

Us: This is so goofy we've reached peak 2018.

2018: Hold my beer.

Self Driving Car software is worse than you think

This is kind of jaw dropping.  The cars cannot avoid ramming stationary objects at high speed:

A natural reaction to these incidents is to assume that there must be something seriously wrong with Tesla's Autopilot system. After all, you might expect that avoiding collisions with large, stationary objects like fire engines and concrete lane dividers would be one of the most basic functions of a car's automatic emergency braking technology. 

But while there's obviously room for improvement, the reality is that the behavior of Tesla's driver assistance technology here isn't that different from that of competing systems from other carmakers. As surprising as it might seem, most of the driver-assistance systems on the roads today are simply not designed to prevent a crash in this kind of situation.

This is bizarre, and I strongly recommend you read the entire article.  You would think that this would be a basic capability, but since the system was put together from parts that evolved over time, this is something that seems to have dropped through the cracks.  It's highly doubtful that this is the only think that can kill you that has dropped through the cracks.

Holy cow, what a mess.

Wow, the New York Times is trying to get Trump re-elected

I'm as appalled as anyone by the president's behavior today but if anyone thinks this Steffen Seibert photo is going to hurt Trump with voters I really don't think you've been paying attention pic.twitter.com/RKmHm8pOEe

— Seth Mandel (@SethAMandel) June 10, 2018

The Times put it above the fold on the front page, which says they think it makes Trump look bad.

[blink] [blink]

After Napoleon's fall, the old Bourbon monarchs were restored to the French throne.  They combined viciousness with incompetence in equal measure.  It was said of them that they had learned nothing and forgotten nothing.

You'd wonder if the Times realizes that a lot of people voted for Trump because he said he would stand up to bad trade deals, but actually you shouldn't wonder.

"The Germans and French are angry with Trump, so vote Democrat" is... well let me just say, I wouldn't advise Dems to run with this one

— Seth Mandel (@SethAMandel) June 10, 2018

Dear NYT: the Re-Elect Donald Trump 2020 Campaign looks on and smiles.

Jonathan Leshnoff - Symphony 2, What Is Man?

Libertyman sent this as a suggestion.  My selections of classical music run to the older and traditional, because that's my taste.  I mostly don't care for most modern classical music - it's too often amelodic and dissonant.

But Jonathan Leshnoff is an interesting modern composer, and very widely performed.  My guess is that it's because he goes against the grain of modern composition.  I'm still not sure if it's my cup of tea, but uniquely for modern classical music, it's listenable.



Thanks to libertyman for an interesting suggestion.

From the place that Great Britain used to be

pic.twitter.com/T8tTWqHD34

— Sal the Agorist (@SallyMayweather) June 9, 2018

45 years ago

Via Chris Lynch, we learn that this is the 45th anniversary of the greatest horse race in history, the 1973 Belmont Stakes.  Not only did Secretariat blow away the field, the race resulted in what I believe is the greatest sports photograph of all time.  Photographer Bob Coglianese positioned himself perfectly to capture the moment as Secretariat beat the field by 31 lengths.  The composition is superb, giving both the sense of unbeatable speed and the total domination of what is likely the fastest horse of all time - and what is still the fastest 1.5 miles on dirt ever recorded.  He beat the rest of the field by almost 3 seconds (!).

Chris has video of the race, which is simply astonishing.  More background on Secretariat and the race here.

And the Queen Of The World likes Justified to win today, although not by 31 lengths.  She picked him for both the Kentucky Derby and Preakness, and picked him for the Triple Crown from the begining.

Weekend!

Time to go out on the boat!

Or not.

More Climate data tampering

This time it's tidal gauges - the devices that measure whether sea level is going up or down.  We're told that Global Warming is making the seas rise and we'll all be flooded out.  Strangely, it seems that some of the reported rise is because the databases no longer record data from sensors that report that sea levels are falling:

In performing todays’ analysis, I visited again the PSMSL and the SONEL web sites, and I discovered how the “adjustocene” progresses within intergovernmental projects.

• PSMSL does not link any more the Fremantle tide gauge information to the SONEL page of the PERT GPS dome.
• SONEL, that proposes the computed absolute sea level rises by correcting the relative rate of rise from the tide gauge with the subsidence rate from the GPS monitoring, does not propose any more the absolute rate of rise negative for Fremantle.

If you look at the images of Figure 2, with the same time window for the online graph, with reference to two years ago, the negative absolute sea level rise of Fremantle has disappeared, similarly to the negative absolute sea level rise of a Japanese tide gauge.

As I've been complaining about for nigh on a decade, the data have been fiddled.

NTSB report: Tesla autopilot responsible for fatal crash

It accelerated into a concrete wall:

The National Transportation Safety Board has released its preliminary report on the March crash that killed driver Walter Huang in Mountain View. The report provides a second-by-second description of the events that preceded Huang's collision with a concrete lane divider. 

The report confirms that Autopilot was engaged ahead of the crash, and it appears to confirm that a navigation mistake by Autopilot contributed to Huang's death.

Are you willing to trust your life to a huge software program that nobody really knows how it works?

US Government: Hacking commercial jets "only a matter of time"

Hard to argue with this:

US government researchers believe it is only a matter of time before a cybersecurity breach on an airline occurs, according to government documents obtained by Motherboard. The comment was included in a recent presentation talking about efforts to uncover vulnerabilities in widely used commercial aircraft, building on research in which a Department of Homeland Security (DHS) team successfully remotely hacked a Boeing 737.

If DHS is working on this - penetration testing combined with working with the vendors on a fix - then this is really good news.

The documents, which include internal presentations and risk assessments, indicate researchers working on behalf of the DHS may have already conducted another test against an aircraft. They also show what the US government anticipates would happen after an aircraft hack, and how planes still in use have little or no cybersecurity protections in place.

I'm not opposed to looking for security holes.  In general, everything is vulnerable, especially if nobody has spent much time on looking for the holes.  What disturbs me is when people refuse to look, or make fixes when someone else looked.

This program seems to be pointed in the right direction.  It gets ugly when an airliner's computers go haywire.

Lousy Security finally costs a company some sales

A year ago I wrote about the incredible lack of security in CloudPet toys, a set of holes so wide that someone could turn the "smart" toys into recording devices to spy on your kids.  A year later, no security fixes have been released, and retailers are pulling the toys from their catalogs:

Amazon on Tuesday stopped selling CloudPets, a network-connected family of toys, in response to security and privacy concerns sounded by browser maker and internet community advocate Mozilla. 

The move follows similar actions taken by Walmart and Target last week. And other sellers of the toy are said to be considering similar action. Amazon did not immediately respond to a request for comment but CloudPets have vanished from its website.

Let's see: Amazon, Wallmart, and Target - that reduces your addressable market a bit now, don't it?  And this is hilarious (if entirely expected):

Spiral Toys, the maker of CloudPets, did not immediately respond to inquiries.

Not sure how big a hit this is to their bottom line, but their combination of incompetence and lack of diligence in fixing this deserves a big hit.

The most compelling D-Day post today

Old Air Force Sarge has it.  Go, read.

You're welcome.

"Hold mah beer", Military edition

I'd think that stealing an armored personnel carrier is the express lane to Levinworth, but maybe that's just me.

The Persecution of the Deplorables

To the commission chosen to superintend the sacrifices. From Aurelia Ammonous, daughter of Mystus, of the Moeris quarter, priestess of the god Petesouchos, the great, the mighty, the immortal, and priestess of the gods in the Moeris quarter. I have sacrificed to the gods all my life, and now again, in accordance with the decree and in your presence, I have made sacrifice, and poured a libation, and partaken of the sacred victims. I request you to certify this below.

- Certificate of required sacrifice to Emperor Decius, 250 AD

Haec pictura ab Wikipedia

The Roman Empire was massive, and even in the disastrous third century stretched from Scotland to Egypt.  Unlike the old Republic of four centuries before, it was not a single ethnic nation-state.  Instead, its 50 million subjects were from many different groups, all ruled by a single state apparatus.

Quite frankly, even in the 3rd century that state apparatus was pretty effective.  There were surprisingly few armed rebellions against Roman rule - the fighting was mostly civil war style battles between rival claims to the Imperial throne.

What held this vast and diverse population together was not a shared history or common language, but rather a shared acceptance of Roman political institutions as, if not just, then at least a damned sight better than the alternative.  Key to this acceptance was recognition of the office of Emperor as the head of the Roman world.

This is an enormously important point, and you really can't understand the remarkable success of the Roman Empire without knowing a bit of the official state propaganda about the office of the Emperor.  Patrick Wyman goes into this in some depth in episode 5 of his great Fall Of Rome podcast: Just How Screwed Up Was The Late Roman Empire?

You can't understand the persecutions of the Christians without understanding the propaganda about the Emperors.  The persecutions weren't about religion at all; instead, they were a mandatory, public acknowledgement of acceptance of that Imperial propaganda.  It was a matter of state security, you might say, and it's not accidental that you didn't see these persecutions during the height of the empire (Trajan through Marcus Aurelius), but rather during the difficult years of the third century when it looks for a while that things might fall apart.

The fly in the ointment, as you well know, is that the Christians did see this as religious, and a lot of martyrs filled out the list of saints.  Their clinging to their guns and religion was seen as subversive to the state in its hour of need.

We see this happening today.  Roseanne Barr's show was canceled because she sent out a supposedly racist tweet.  Disney's stated reason for killing their top show doesn't have a lot of credibility, because they also canceled Tim Allen's Last Man Standing show a year back.  It was their second most popular show at the time, and he hadn't made any comments like she did.  It was just here today, and gone tomorrow.

And does anyone remember Brendan Eich, the former head of the  Mozilla Foundation?  Gone, because he donated to a political campaign as a private citizen.  Beyond these shores, we see more of the same.  Tommy Robinson has been jailed in England because he speaks HateFacts™.  The EU just tried to keep a nationalist Italian government from forming - the reaction to the Italian election was so dictatorial that even George Soros tried to wave the EU off.  Seventy percent of College students support suppression of free speech on Campus.

It's all quite strange, unless you think about the Decian Persecutions.  The Global Elites are feeling threatened all over, just like the Roman Emperors did in 250 AD.  The elections of Donald Trump, Brexit, and populist revolts across western Europe show that the "glue" holding together the current Western Progressive Empire is breaking down.  The diverse populations that once accepted the rule of the Global Elite are now restive, and questioning the legitimacy of that elite.

And so the people must sacrifice to the Emperor or pay the consequences.

That means publicly mouthing the required platitudes about globalism, progressivism, diversity, and the rest of the pantheon of Imperial propaganda - this is to demonstrate the citizen's allegiance to the anointed rulers.

And those who don't - who, say, have a popular TV show that showcases conservative or libertarian or populist ideas running counter to that propaganda?  They have to go.  The elites must make an example of them, to influence weaker minds that might be wavering from full public support of the official Imperial propaganda.

It won't work, of course, any more than it worked for Decian or his successors.  What it did then was to harden the resolve of the persecuted Christians and build support for them among their non-Christian neighbors who were revolted at the senseless cruelty of the persecutions.  It is doing this today, as the legitimacy of the global elite and its imperial propaganda is rejected  by a growing number of Deplorables, world wide.  We know this because we see the persecutions, which are a result, not a cause.

The Dinosaurs sniff a change on the wind, and roar their defiance.

UPDATE 10 June 2018 16:08: Lots of examples of official and unofficial persecution here.

Thoughts on the anniversary of D-Day

We've come a long way in 74 years.  This is what a united American nation did back then:

Decades of intentionally divisive politics have led us to where we now are, a disunited and fractured American empire:

There is no common identity, no shared polity.  There's only a winner-take-all sense of strife between groups who increasingly have little in common with each other.

More thoughts on this here.

Call of the Beguiled - A Brigid Guest Post

The sun was setting, leaving wisps of lavender ribbons across the sky; clouds moving up the mountains, strands through which I could see the last phase of the moon. The bobber moved slightly, a fish, or the wind? I had seen one huge fin slicing the surface of the water, it was either a big carp or Nessie. I was tempted to jerk the line, but I waited. This is what patience is all about, being wholeheartedly engaged in the process that's unfolding, rather than yanking the line to see what's at the other end. Patience is good. I've been going full tilt for so long that it's time.

I learned to fish, up here on the Gray's river, within eyesight of an old wooden covered bridge that's still here today. The waders and equipment are still stored in Dad's garage if the urge to go out on the water, arises. Steelhead fishing isn't for the impatient, or the truly hungry, for we would come home without a fish more times than with.

I've had more than one female friend say"  "Aren't you bored?"

Then there was the salmon fishing,  early mornings in the back of a boat, making the treacherous trip across the Columbia River Bar, glad we went with a more expensive ride out to sea, rather than the one handed dude with a boat named "Roll of the Dice". On such trips, we usually brought home a fish but that was after being drenched with water that shot up against the bow like a geyser, the colors of the sea's rainbow glittering on the hull, as only slow deliberate movements are made, lest one get tossed into a white, hissing eternity.

I've fished both saltwater and freshwater salmon, the freshwater moving in from the oceans of their life into the rivers to spawn. There's nothing like it, that fixed spot in space when you think maybe you've snagged a rock on the bottom and suddenly the whole bottom begins to move and shake and you've got a freight train on your line. While your vision is clouded with bacon wrapped salmon and the hickory smell of the smoker firing up, your muscle memory is having a boxing tournament with a fish as big as a 3 year old, jumping out of the water, dancing on his tail like a washed out celebrity, then diving back into the water.

The male salmon is, as they say, all show and no roe, cocky and overambitious, The female, though, not inclined to bite, when she does will liein with a heavy and placid stubbornness that begs you to start something. Like arguing with any female of strength and persuasion you had either be prepared for a long drawn out test of will or simply get out the scissors, cut the line and admit THAT was a mistake

Bored? Never.

Patience isn't stressed, rushed; it is a steady strength we apply to life as we face it, be it staff to train, forms in quadruplicate or aging parents. As I waited, the call of a loon brought me back into the moment and I thought things happening back at home, rather than why I came here. And then the sound of it reminded me. "Can you hear that?" I whispered to the old dog sitting by my side, poised to strike in case I reeled in a pound of bacon. "That" being the sound of a small bass jumping on a small span of water on a planet spinning through space. This is what fishing is all about, not catching anything for supper, but simply a time with nature to be savored, when delight imbibes through every pore with the gossamer cast of a line. I really don't care if I catch anything tonight. I just enjoyed the communion of elemental waters.

This is why I hated the modern version of camping. Huge motor homes, where roughing it means doing without ESPN. Neighbor's closer than found in any subdivision. My camping was a fire built with magic and swear words, burned wienies and good beans, wood smoke and bug spray, paper plates that fell apart. My camping was the sound of a hoot owl as the sun sets, itw dying rays reflected in a cup of beer as a black lab snoozed happily by the fire. I'm here, for those times when I don't wish to sacrifice the wonder of the present moment to work, society or noise. A loner always, I want a broad margin to my life. I can sit in the fading sunlight of a doorway between two trees from dinner til dark fall, rapt in a revere in undisturbed stillness and solitude.

As dusk settles in, I wonder about the lapse of time, the evening seeming like a mere moment, time like a season in which I grew like flowers in the night. Philosophers talk about contemplation and the forsaking of work and out here I realize what they meant. The day advances as the light comes into it, it's morning, and now it's evening, and nothing memorable is done. My days are not minced into deadlines of a ticking clock or the perusal of things no longer breathing. Let mornings be lazy, afternoons pass by in long walks or a flip of a fishing pole and if the day becomes wasted in the warm rapture of a sunset as nature sings its song in my ear - what's the harm?

Poets talk about "spots of time," but its only been flying and on the water where I've experienced eternity compressed into a moment. A moment where in an instant you can see your whole life and make a choice. No one can even explain to you what this "spot of time" is until your whole horizon is a fish and then the fish is gone. I thought of one large fish up in Alaska. I shall remember that fish when I'm an old lady. When I brought him up and saw the sun glinting off his back, rainbow diamonds of light against the waves, I was so enamored of him I couldn't even take a breath and in that instant, before he was gone time stopped. Only then did it hit me what I had lost.

I thought back to fly fishing in Montana, watching the fly fisherman standing, rod in hand, in the rushing water. His movement the languid strokes of a lover, making the most beautiful movements, a ballet of line and wind and hook. A ritual of the chase, the cast like a tease to the unsuspecting trout, content in their world, until he pulled them into his. As the trout took the bait, the man would smile, that quick knowing smile, and pull with a quick flick of his fingers and hands, like light strokes on a keyboard, touching yet pulling, desire planted, hook in place. Then after reeling the trout in, he ever so gently pulled the hook from the mouth of the trout, gently cradling her in his hand, a tender goodbye. Without a sound, just a quick unemotional tickle of her belly, he released her back downstream. He never looked back.


Catch and Release.

This was the outdoors. Splashes of daylight that recharged what you came here with. This was our outdoors. Unidentifiable sounds in the darkness that made you hold your breath at the bottom of your sleeping bag. A good book read with a dying flashlight, shadows dancing on the wall of a small canvas tent, and the musty smell of freedom and adventure. A quiet prayer to my God over a meal garnered by my own hand and cooked over a campfire.  A time when growth may not be on the surface but may be internal, and the weekend quietly drifts by in the warm embrace of the woods. But even in the woods, any good day must end.

As the last of the daylight seeped out of the sky, I thought back to work, but only briefly, for my mind now is rippled, not storm-tossed. These small ripples of water raised by the evening's wind are the only hint of turmoil in the calm. As the day pulled out of the sky, taking the wind with it, I cast one last time out into the still center of the water. There, utter and complete stillness, holding my breath, because even inhaling and exhaling was like a cacophony. The animals of the day were hunkering down for rest, and the night creatures not quite yet stirring, there was no breeze, no recognition of air even; it was the sound of nothing and everything. It felt like all my life past and present was contained in one space, and I was not just casting into it, I was part of it. Where for just a brief moment in the universe, the clock stopped ticking, and the world hushed.

The last night I went fishing back West I didn't bring a trout home for dinner, my true catch was as intangible as the starlight now playing on the water. I think of Thoreau's words "many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after". To fish it to flirt, to flirt, we fish, dancing with fate. Icy water and warm lips, we thirst, we reach with that last translucent breath, closing our eyes to softly bite the secret barb. We are drawn in with a soft gasp of breath, chest softly heaving, as we look into the unknown, up into the eyes that desired us.

This was my catch. Some nights in the woods, where I was able to pull the barb of civilization from my lips and swim rapidly to where the wild called to me. Where my heart is always at home.