2004-09-01

Fish in the sky

Adieus

And the soles of my shoes sink into the muddied shores of a river as I look at my reflection, which has been disfigured by the dancing ripples. Once, I fished in this same place where the brown leaves tragically fall to the ground.

�I am haunted by waters�

With a twisted twig, I wrote my story on the river�s red clay; you chanced upon it one crisp, winter morning, and were foolish enough to think that you understood. Perhaps all I have truly ever wanted was for someone to quietly fish by my side--the whirring of fishing nets and the plopping of bait into the silent waters.

In this manner, I oftentimes fish alone; fish in the sky, like Henry said. Those who fish in the sky are those whose souls feel as fragile as the black spider�s cobweb--only the heavenly waters will provide them the golden memories that swim around like trout. Those fishermen roll up their sand-colored trousers knee-high, and waddle into the cold stream. Their bare feet sliding past the smooth, black-spotted stones--each one containing one thought, one sigh, and one smile of a time, which existed long ago.

Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains...I hear his voice in the clear, crisp day on Walden Pond. Choosing to stay within the velvet-skinned arms of nature, I only roll my trousers up above the ankles. Casting my net into the current, I find an odd calmness inside myself, and my serenity is like the placid lake--rippled but not ruffled. As I fish quietly, some lost fellow will pass by and make conversation. For the most part, these people only stay awhile, and I still hope that the next traveler will stay:

We�ll catch trout like the two friends from Guy De Maupassant, I say.

When you read that nearly illegible story on the red clay, you thought yourself lucky and said, I�ve found a pearl in the sweet waters of the glittering brook.

And you, like many others before, picked up that white stone that lay in the abundance of gray. With a beaming smile and wide eyes, you confused me for some precious artifact. Until one day, as you stood in the gleam of the morning�s light, you examined me well--my luster wasn�t as brilliant as you once saw it; my shape not as exquisite--this isn�t a pearl.

A stone, no doubt, like any regular stone. I lay entrenched in the river and let the current slide past me. People sob in this river, but tears carry each story into the waters. I carry many stories, including my own. Each fisherman, before leaving the sweet earth for the sky has engraved their story on the rivers� stones. Voices of long ago still linger within the confines of these cold waters, and they all melt into one solid color of human hope and desire and despair. We�re stones lying quietly in the bottom of the silent river, and tears come and wash over us; they�re those salt-drenched confessions being pulled out of a fragile heart.

I would drink deeper...

The sky is infinite, with the silhouettes of our lonely boats sailing against the ebb tides. Throw a handful of tears above your head, and illuminate the night sky--you�ll see the serene fishermen look down with inviting stares; and truly, the fishermen are the ghosts who abound through the waters and the night sky--no one else can see or feel us. We�re both stones and fishermen--collecting stories and memories. The sky-fishermen fish in silence and speak to one another through warm stares and smiles; the sound of waltzing waves at midnight play the songs they hum to. I hear Henry�s voice:

�This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirtsleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me. The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whippoorwill is borne on the riling wind from over the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled..."

aeka at 5:32 p.m.