that’s also the name of a fantastic novel by Iain Banks but my canal dreams aren’t nearly as dramatic, poetic nor finely constructed. i don’t dream of canals as such but since i mostly sleep next to one my waking self can’t help but think that somehow some sort of liquidy-stary impressions seep in when my eyes are closed. here’s un aperçu, bonne nuit !
make my head spin till it falls off.
and rising fish and cloudy skies.
some believe water has a conscience,
i just think it has a mind of its own.
a happy little chub slurping down a mid-afternoon snack.
one of the slurpees ? doubt it but it’s still a fly.
a well-meaning friend asked me if this was still a fly fishing blog.
here you go.
some say “If you got it, flaunt it”.
animals don’t say or understand those terms nor do they need to fulfill a sense of reassurance, vanity or self-valorisation:
they have the upper hand.
as in: twist my ankles getting in and out of there and wind up getting lost on the way out.
just parts of what makes a great day streamside i suppose…