Easier

Makes it so much easier, to just say what you mean. I'm fully sympathetic, when it comes to saying what you mean. I don't lie well. I'd rather not make something up. But, if reality doesn't provide what I need, I'm not above making it up. You can't trust me. I'll grope in the dark. I won't remember, but I will grope. Once, in Florida, I must have been 15, Dad and I went fishing, Salt Creek up the St. John's, the flats where the river opened into big water, a place we couldn't often fish because it was exposed to any weather, wide open, but a calm day, we were fishing shiners for large-mouth bass at the edge of the lily-pads. An attentive kind of fishing, where you watched a moving bobber for sudden jerks, mine suddenly dipped and moved away, Dad yelled, but I was on the case, waited until the float went down the second time, set the hook, largest bass I ever caught, 8 pounds 6 ounces, I played him well. I almost never lied at home, I could tell my parents anything, ask them anything, we moved around so often (Navy Brat) that I was never part of a group, so didn't have a peer group to lie to, mostly, I read. Still do. Good day at the museum, finally sought out Leo, Tech Director at the college, seems the lighting equipment Pegi had at the Cirque is just fine, hook this to this, that to that, run a certain size wire, various mounting pointers; then D was able to find and download the manuals for both the electronic components. On a roll. The AC guys were back, to repair one of the two big roof-top AC units, thank god, things were heating up in Dodge City. I read both manuals, because I'll read anything, and because I left theater before the electronic revolution. I was still writing on a monster manual Underwood, horrible machine to learn on because it was so heavy and could take should a beating, I developed a two-finger hammering technique that destroys mere keyboards. Never could unlearn the technique, either, as if I'd learned to think through hammered digits. No nappe at the spillway, families quietly fishing: aha, I think, just two crows at the sheltered tables, but there's the third, chasing a donut hole down the slope, into the edge of the lake. Too hot to cook, and I know I'll skip dinner, so I stop at the Dairy Bar and get a footer, stuffed jalapenos; bought a bunch (10) of the little cans of baked beans on sale recently, another habit of families that fish, is that they eat many things out of those small cans, perfect boat food, and always at room temperature, so, with the footer and peppers, a cold can of beans. A picnic, I fish in my mind. Eating Vienna Sausages, Beanie Weanies, smoked oysters, sardines, liver sausage, yellow cheese and saltine crackers, drinking Busch beer in returnable bottles. That last couple of years, fishing with Dad in north Florida, I was close to becoming a river rat, but fell into theater, such is how, now I'm a river rat again, go figure. The driveway is eroded to loose rock and the verges are infringing. The finish on my truck is beat to shit by blackberry canes, the driveway has become a secret: if you didn't know it was there you wouldn't know it was there, a close dense canopy. If I ever drank anyplace else, and tried to drive home (I don't) I'd never find my house, I carry two flashlights and a large plastic bag in my soft army back-pack, a few other things, an extra pen, a dry notebook, a Phillip's bit for the drill, several of those strange nuts that secure down the plastic bolts for a toilet seat. God help me, I save those. I have a peach-basket filled. AND my current and forever passion is to compost ALL OF MY SHIT, which I do, AND collect the nuts that anchor toilet seats. Suspect. I wouldn't trust me, if I were you, I'd vote me off the island. I have to go out and shoot another dog, they're running the wildlife off, I hate killing anything, but I have to, I'm writing a book about a fox.