Reality of Life

A little bird had chirped a pleasant note in my ear regarding a certain mayfly on Sunday late, so off I scurried to the water, packing only my fishing gear, a bottle of bourbon, six bottles of water, and an egg salad sandwich, thinking I wouldn’t be gone long.  The reality of the pleasant note kept me in the water for twenty of the last forty-eight hours.  Fished hard.

Reality is existent in the woods and streams, in opposition to the masquerade of official pronouncements and strained baby food fed to individuals via newspapers and teevee news.  I feast on this reality.

Returning from the reality of the water, for a bit of physical rest, and a bite to eat after subsisting on hatching mayflies, rising trout, cigars and bourbon for the most part the past couple of days, I clicked through the sanctioned “news” sources and noted that the illusion that all is well in the world, meaning “The Endarkenment,” and its accompanying ignorance continues apace.

Fortunately, I was able to find a speck of bright light of knowledge and truth, reality, a note as pleasant as that bird that chirped in my ear, in these words.

It is interesting to note that there are those alive today who are living a uniquely notable experience because they are now still alive to see the end of America, but old enough to have lived its peak. The past century or so has seen the seeding and cultivation of ideas only now coming to terrible yield. However, the enormous impetus of America’s original conception, coming together as it did with the Industrial Age, managed to carry various aspects of this country’s culture (material, intellectual, aesthetic, etc.) to heights which were the apple of the world’s eye through most of the twentieth century, and for good reasons. Even to this day, one can easily find anywhere in the world some benighted peasant who still longs for The Great Feast of Ostentatious Consumption that America represents to most people who haven’t been studied by critical sociology. Of course, that poor bastard never got to blast gas through a Chevy 454 SS at three gallons (or more) for a dollar, never had the quality of information delivered to his door that we once had, and his country never celebrated life on the scale that ours did before everybody really started hating themselves and then—of course—everything else, and their arts showed it.

Those words, are Billy Beck’s, and though the reality of Billy’s words are disheartening, the fact that they are reality is as pleasing to me as the pleasant chirping of birds in my ear noting certain mayflies taking wing.

Posted by .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) on 05/26 at 01:19 PM

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