Thursday, February 24, 2011

THE RING OF EGYPT


    The old hymn rang out with, “Faith of our fathers, living still /  In spite of  dungeon, fire and  sword.” I remember how gladly we sang  how earnestly. But not any more. The old faith has taken blow after blow in the last half-century and in many places is down nearly for the count.
  Now in Egypt the new digital technology, the Social Network, has come fully into its own. A generation of dispossessed young people accomplished in a week social and political change that in the past would have taken years if not decades to bring about. Those young Egyptians left their father’s faith at home and went “wired” into the streets of Cairo to organize a revolution.  
    The electronic instruments they held in their hands turned out to be the  most democratizing  technology since the advent of the automobile. Those protesters were at all times intimately in touch with each other and under the immediate  direction  of a brilliant  leadership.
    Among our ancient fantasies is that of the magic ring that gives its wearer power over all the world. In Wagner’s immense music drama , “Der Ring des Niebelungen”, a ring made of gold stolen from the Rhine did the trick.
    Oxford’s Professor Tolkien  used the idea in his monumental fiction, The Lord of the Rings. We hold that fantasy in common of slipping a magic ring on our finger and enjoying complete power over our circumstances.  But where to get one?
   When I was a child, the “Little Orphan Annie” radio program at 5:30 every weekday evening, pulled us enchanted listeners into the fantasy by offering us just such a magic ring for ten cents and the seal from a jar of Ovaltine. Following the ring-- now get this-- the program offered a decoder pin, all glistening gold, a star, that we could bravely wear and have ready to decode special, secret  messages sent us by the radio broadcast.  It felt like power, to be hooked up in this way to a great confederation of listening kids like me.
   Just like Egypt.
   I confess, I still have my decoder pin, and can still believe in it-- at least as much as I can believe in my childhood.
   So, little wonder that kids, young and old, are fast in the thrall of these new and miraculous electronic devices.  There can be no doubt but that they give a sense of power and  personal magnitude. They proclaim the order of the day’s march. 
   The kids have high-jacked the technologies of their elders in order to realize the fondest of all the dreams of youth: that of side-stepping those same elders into their own new life.
    The final utterance in King Lear is, “We that are young shall never see so much nor live so long.” Now, in my very old age, I can, all of a sudden, see why this moving line of Edgar’s is both right and wrong. The kids will never know what we know--except perhaps in sudden little insights from out of nowhere. True enough. But. I must believe that those same kids may be entering on quite a new world, opened to them by the great E technology where I can never fully play. I think I must be resigned and keep out of the way.
   In a sense, a sense at once melancholy and thrilling, our children will never come home again. And I say nothing about those terrific Rings which always, in the end, lead to cataclysm. Or maybe to a new Egypt. A new Middle East.

Friday, February 18, 2011

 

                                    Be Advised
   I had accumulated five hunting stories that I wanted to tell, but had not, because they each contain a peculiar, and personal violence apart from ordinary hunting.  But they finally got the best of me, and I invented a third gazette, after The Boulderceek Angler and its twin The Bouldercreek Actor. The third was to be, as you might have guessed, The Bouldercreek Hunter. I sent out four stories in four paper editions of  this new gazette.

    Now, I am unable to hold back on the fifth story. All of them had been as near truth as I could get them, but this last one, the one here posted on this obscure blog, is not a tale of  killing
deer, antelope, ducks,  pheasants, or  grouse. It is the tale of killing a Man.
                                    Be advised.
In any case, this is the end of my hunting stories. I have no more. It’s enough.


From
The Bouldercreek Hunter
Hunting Story Number Five
The Death of Ken John
1925-1982

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Occasional Verses

        A Eulogy
On Saturday, January 22, 2011
In the Key of flat/foot

Sad old Saturday newspaper,
The Camera all about itself,
An exercise in public mourning,
A cultural draw-down.
Our dear old Camera,
The jewel in the town,
Local, independent, complete.
A real genuine American newspaper
Daily at my door,
The record of my Boulder life.

Out to the Eastern wastes it flies,
Lost and forgotten out there
In trash offices in trash buildings
Not even space for its morgue--
Its library-- that holds all Boulder.
A computer or two now will do.
No pressmen left down town,
Inked and grumbling about reporters,
No reporters prowling the town.

Now a clutch of stalled young people
Waiting for stories.
Poking at their resumes.
Hoping for escape
To a patch site at AOL
On which to grow a career.

Bred, as they have been
On the soured milk of social indecency
Ignorance, violence, and greed,
They write it down,
Spice it with banalities,
Never too banal, of
Flat-footed local stuff like that.

Get the paper out of town!
Those kids taking down
The Sign of the Camera,
To haul away-- to somewhere.
Some day, odds on, to become
A single sheet inserted weekly in the Post.
The NEW CAMERA,
Claiming a bright new day of
Public service--meaning corporate profit.
Dear old, poor old, sad old Saturday paper.

Monday, January 10, 2011

At The Club: an Over-Seas Member

                                                   Braving it out at The Flyfishers'Club.
                                                           69 Brook Street, London,
                                                                      October 2019.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Transcription of a Paper Letter from One Old Fisherman to Another

 
Dear Richard,
   Yup, I agree. There is so much out there to make us feel bad, such a variety of things, so much that we cannot change. I guess that we must resort to a holding action; that is, trying hard to keep as cheerful as we can in the face of it all. Which is to say that we must not let the bastards get us.
   One day last week, two new “fishing magazines” came in the mail. I sat down with them only to end up tossing them away in deep discouragement. It felt to me like our fishing’s gone to the dogs.
   We’re bombarded in every field sports publication by the many and frantic efforts to get kids out there fishing, to teach them, convert them, instruct them even in their school rooms. The movement has gone evangelical, impassioned, and frantic.
   My hunch is that it’s all in vain, that these newer generations will never fish as we have fished, let alone think of fishing as we have thought of it. The new “tackle” clutched in their hands will not be a fly rod, but a blackberry or an iPhone. That kid, standing there on the corner is receiving or sending another text, not dreaming of a way to get out and catch a trout. 
    Still the hue and  cry is to get those damned kids out of the malls and away from their devices and out fishing-- if not for their own good, then for the good their names, added to the rosters and the polls, can do in the ongoing politics of sport-- but even more, for the greater good of corporate profit.
    I think the battle is lost.
   I think the effort to convert kids is at root disingenuous. Our motives are impure. At the deepest level what we want is to recruit kids to support the “industry” of angling: the manufacturers, the shops, the guides.    Already the  “industry” is slipping downward on the graphs of our tough times. We look with dismay at that kid walking the mall who carries the entire world electronically in his hand. He angles the world at will and almost for free. We old-time anglers simply can’t compete and can only stand by and wish we could yank that cell phone from his hand. We want him to memorialize that “barefoot boy with cheek of tan”,* with a cane pole and can of worms sauntering down an old dirt road to the old fishing hole. But that kid is gone forever-- as are his country parents. There is no rural America left where a kid can discover the field sports in his own sweet way.
   We have to realize, I think, that for the first time, perhaps, in the history of human culture, kids do not much want to live the life that their parents lived. You and I may have had our spates of rebellion and wanted things different from our old folks, but their way remained the same safe way of life that we knew and wanted for ourselves. We lived within continuity and tradition.
   Not that these kids today know what it is they want instead of what they have, but it clearly seems not to be the model that their parents represent. Going fishing with Dad hasn’t the appeal that it once had. Other social constituencies have come to understand this, but not the angling community in which thinking about social issues has never been a long suit. The capitalization and incorporation of youth as an important market looks to be  total, with the field sports bringing up the rear
   When we were kids, we lived closer to what we could see was the source of our daily bread. We understood what our dads did for a living to  support us. And we tended to respect it. If Dad fished, it must be a good thing: such was the dynamic of our culture.
   But not any more. So little is actually manufactured, so much is only computed in obscure offices that our lives have tended to become abstracted from a productive, work-a-day substantial reality. We become digital in our satisfactions and leave the rest to China.
   And, as if this were not enough, demographics are running against all the field sports; ethnicities on the rise are not those where commonly a tradition of field sports is honored let alone practiced. I fear that we are in the late days of our angling tradition. 

I am, neverthless, yours,
   Gordon 

* John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem “The Barefoot Boy” (1885) defined and immortalized this  fundamental American  symbol.

in the collection of Mrs. Claude Albrighton of Boulder, Colorado

Monday, December 13, 2010

An Epistolary Essay in Defense of Sorrow

         
Dear Professor of Chemistry and Distinguished Physician,
    Dear Claude and John, I feel I must babble some sort of response to your recent concern for me, your devoted old friend who poses as a critic of whatever crosses his mind. We must be off on a stroll, three old “doctors,” hand in hand, talking of many things. Which of you is the Walrus and which the Carpenter I must leave you to decide, but I am stuck in the formula as the simple old oyster: ready to comment on your shoes and ships and sealing wax…  nothing on your cabbages and only a touch or two on a king.
     Is it possible to write to you as in a letter like this and make it do double-duty as a column to blog on The Bouldercreek Angler? We shall see.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

IN MEMORIUM




 Upon the Sudden Death in the Night
 on a Road near Saratoga, Wyoming
on September 3, 2010

 of

 Adrian Bantjes
Distinguished
   Professor of History
   And Historian of Angling
at
 The University of Wyoming

He who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep,
pain that cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
and in our despair, against our will,
comes wisdom to us
by the awful grace of god.
Aeschylus
Agamemnon  l.179ff
Edith Hamilton, translator

He was my friend and colleague