GARY PANTER BLOG

Hooks nearby, with writhing half dead worms on them. I don’t know if worms can breathe underwater. Doubt it. These guys are mortally wounded—not happy. Oh yeah—that one’s a goner. Inert. Bobbing in the current. Fishfood.

I admit that they smell nice. Wormy. Like the mud in the ground at the bottom of the lake. Night crawlers are night-crawlers, because they love to crawl out of the wet grass at midnight and amble and tremble in the moonlight. Everything wonders what’s up there. Fish wonder. Worms, too. Up there in the Black and twinkly area up there. Around that area.

During the day night-crawlers lie under the lip of grass that demarcates the flower bed from lawn—to the earthworm a substantial braided canopy, a shield against the searing rays of the sun. How do I know this? I who have only leaped into the air for a momentary glimpse of what passes up there on the forced dry air? I tell you now that we have our sources and traditions— our ways of gathering and protecting the knowledge we amass from all realms over the long ages of vertebrate memory; our sacred notions and halls of learning, including encyclopedic gleanings concerning the airy ether and of certain information to do with the close packed earth to the depth of 4000 miles; our scroll-filled underwater lending libraries; our Davey Jones Locker, if you will.

Undersea, we have many suns apparent that dance and sing in the sky. One and many. Red and yellow and blue and green and pink and orange and purple, depending. Even under a fathom of emollient, we still seek the coolness of shadow—of docks, of boats, of reefs and jetties, underwater caverns and lagoons. Nice chilly spots. With speckles of heat light. A little variety is nice.

Which hook to bite? Better think it over. Every decision a path. Some say a crown and throne and glory is at the end of the line. Multitudes of mammalian and monotrematic life-forms bow and quake or kowtow there in the celestial throne room where each cod and mackeral waves a golden scepter with majesty and radiant glory. Well, really only reflecting the glory of the biggest whale on the biggest throne of all the heavens, that’s all!!!

What is dropping those worms impaled on cruel hooks into the briny brine? Are there giant worms with no consideration for tiny worms? Worms whose pain is too small to register on any sensitive instrument relative to the astounding bulk of their tormentors? I wonder what they taste like? Maybe like worms. Worms serving a greater cause, perhaps? Maybe a ritualistic effort conducted by believer worms. Perhaps the giant walking manatees or worms or whatever they are up there—and I sincerely do believe something is out there, are up to something or another. Otherwise: worms on hooks from no-where? I don’t think so. Worms on hooks come from somewhere. It may be a simple mechanical or natural process, like swamp gas, or it may involve intent. With all our knowledge of land-life, some very important parts of the conundrum seem to be missing. We fish are great observers and eager listeners, ready joiners, flockers, even, but lousy theoreticians. Metaphor, analogy, simile, rubric, parable and aphorism are only words to me. I am more comfortable with bubbles. Trails of bubbles heading somewhere. Bubbles going out there.

In heaven you get: A baloney sandwich with a slice of American cheese, a sheet of iceberg lettuce, mustard, and/or Miracle Whip, some Fritos or Ruffles on a paper plate, also home to a crowd of migrating pork ‘n beans buoying a white plastic fork. Also, a cold king-size Coke in a glass bottle, dripping picturesque rivulets.

There is a redwood picnic table on the grass with napkins and a jar of butter pickles. And a yard with a swingset to stand by. The sky is blue. There are three fluffy white clouds adrift. Birds are singing like crazy and occasionally zip by, quick as a wink, but they are not standing around in plain sight twittering or tweeting. There are no wires for them to loiter on.

The swing is too small for your ass, but it is really just for looks. It looks nice. There is a slight breeze, just a puff. Not much is happening. It’s almost time to sit on the freezer. More ass appropriate.

Later means cinnamon Pop Tarts with butter, blisteringly hot. Great Shakes and the Monkees or Jetsons, take your pick. That’s in the Den, also called the rumpus allusion.

Outside the yard is the horizon. There are some bare gray trees on it. They trace invisible forces with their limbs. But they are very tiny and far far away.

No insects—well, there are ants, but they are just quietly singing In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida waiting for a crumb. No problem.

There is a little league game, if you want to watch. The announcer is a real character. His warm voice booms to the treeline and back and all around. The little guys sure swing and shout and kick up a storm of dust.