Some great thinker once said there can be no spiritual growth without suffering. Hence, when one hauls beer over many horrible ports, especially on a solo trip, Nirvana is just around the corner.
Hi, I'm John from Ontario
- Thread starter John
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Actually for some reason I'm feeling more likely to haul a can or two over ports this year than in the past. Not sure why? Maybe I'm more appreciative of just a single finely crafted beverage after a languid lazy day of tripping reverie in beautiful places. Ooor maybe I'm just getting old and my low stupor threshold is easily crossed with a single Bud Lite buzz bomb. Yeah, that's probably it.
I don't need to sink a dozen to find my happy place (but I won't decline the hospitality). But what I really don't need is to carry them. This summer I might carry two. That's singles, not dozen.
I don't need to sink a dozen to find my happy place (but I won't decline the hospitality). But what I really don't need is to carry them. This summer I might carry two. That's singles, not dozen.
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Just a bit of temptation, John: On a lark, I called Oley (one of my shuck buddies) this past Friday evening and asked him if he wanted to paddle the Ross Barnett Rez with me the next day. He quickly and diplomatically delegated his Saturday chores to the bloodkin within shouting distance. We then decided to scrap the rez and shuttle a portion of the upper Pearl River to explore new cuts, oxbows, and flooded cypress swamps from the recent high waters. Upshot = our souls were fed on adventure, our bellies were fed with fresh caught and fried fish, along with potato salad, black-eyed peas, corn bread, and peach cobbler brought from home. And we topped it off with a couple of Bud Heavy tallboys and a nap in the hammocks. At the take-out some teenage boys in a skeeter boat said "Sir, can we help you load you boats?" Come on down and we'll have a paddle.
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Suuuup paddling dude!
You'll have to forgive me. The day is absolutely perfect and I’m stuck at work behind a computer, drawing lines on an expensive etch-a-sketch. The horror… the horror of an impossibly close Nirvana is breaking me down. But
the topic of flying solo flying loaded flying behaves—I mean to say enjoys or maybe following someone who really paddles well becomes? Watching their interactions and patterns emerge from rock water stick boat torso when everything becomes what was the word? Liquefaction? When every move leaves nothing out and nothing unneeded interrupts—I mean as if to paddle means to forget everything unimportant—is what Miles Davis said concerning art—or to dance well move less?
people like interruptions
And but yet following that ease of motion like right behind it following like bringing the entire purpose of moving—human movement through three dimensions I mean—into the palm of your hand—the palm at the end of your mind, said the Great One—impossibly remote and deep within--like a spotlight on this one dance unfolding in a shadowy, crowded ballroom of your brain—spotlight I mean on some freshly married young-bodied beautiful-to-behold bride and groom oblivious to the crashing sound like the sea spinning the universe somehow spinning beyond the room beyond the sea unleashed upon an undeserving world right there in front of you, impossibly, in front of you, glistening in the impossible sun, as if one soft whispered breath away from disappearing forever, there it is:
a canoe leaned gently on edge gliding between a few rocks on a thin film of water.
To see it happen in front of you is like dying of thirst. To become the dance is like hearing her whisper your name across a crowded room—of a sudden the room is empty but for two and you remember why you live. Nothing less. Nothing more.
You'll have to forgive me. The day is absolutely perfect and I’m stuck at work behind a computer, drawing lines on an expensive etch-a-sketch. The horror… the horror of an impossibly close Nirvana is breaking me down. But
the topic of flying solo flying loaded flying behaves—I mean to say enjoys or maybe following someone who really paddles well becomes? Watching their interactions and patterns emerge from rock water stick boat torso when everything becomes what was the word? Liquefaction? When every move leaves nothing out and nothing unneeded interrupts—I mean as if to paddle means to forget everything unimportant—is what Miles Davis said concerning art—or to dance well move less?
people like interruptions
And but yet following that ease of motion like right behind it following like bringing the entire purpose of moving—human movement through three dimensions I mean—into the palm of your hand—the palm at the end of your mind, said the Great One—impossibly remote and deep within--like a spotlight on this one dance unfolding in a shadowy, crowded ballroom of your brain—spotlight I mean on some freshly married young-bodied beautiful-to-behold bride and groom oblivious to the crashing sound like the sea spinning the universe somehow spinning beyond the room beyond the sea unleashed upon an undeserving world right there in front of you, impossibly, in front of you, glistening in the impossible sun, as if one soft whispered breath away from disappearing forever, there it is:
a canoe leaned gently on edge gliding between a few rocks on a thin film of water.
To see it happen in front of you is like dying of thirst. To become the dance is like hearing her whisper your name across a crowded room—of a sudden the room is empty but for two and you remember why you live. Nothing less. Nothing more.
