Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Teaching / Society / Order / NoHier /
States intrude. That’s what they like to do. On his own the individual human may be polite; once he puts on a uniform, works for the state, the bureau, the post office, the army, the man, it’s brown shirts and jack boots.
The more I hate civilization the more dependent I become on getting “away”: to the mountain, to the lake, to the sea … In the 1960s I would disappear up Mount Washington for days at a time: climbing, camping, skiing. In Florida I would disappear into the Everglades. But in the Glades, in time, some boat would always roar by. On Mt. Washington, in camp I was surrounded by modern nylon colors: tents, tarps … Otherwise everything could have been from nearly any other century among the last few dozen centuries. The Everglades was much too clearly post-war Twentieth Century: everybody had a bass boat with a huge engine. But for the past decade and a half I could disappear onto Lake Istokpoga and find someplace deep in the weeds where no one was likely to see me for hours, days at a time. I could strip naked and wade.
But that’s changed. It used to be that the boat ramps rarely crowded up. Now the new Istokpoga Park runs tournaments all the time> there will be more than one hundred boat trailers lined up on a given Saturday. But even midweek a dozen boats will penetrate my hiding spot in the weeds.
Still, I am able to forget. For moments at a time I can forget that 2006 isn’t 2001 or 1995. That Florida is now more like New York than the wild west. Once it was cops no where in sight; now it’s cops jammed against your ass.
Still, for moments, especially on Lake Istokpoga, I can forget that I’m civilized, that I’m educated, that most of my food is processed, slaughtered for me. I can pretend that I’m independent, self-providing: a savage.
One thing about pk fantasizing savagery, there’s seldom a place in it for females. Females would be welcome: whole groups of them; but they don’t want to come. No, females want their rent paid, to be taken out to dinner, decorated, owned, fussed over. So the hell with women: I fish alone.
Except for Mary. She had a fishing rod in her hand when I met her. We fished together almost daily for a month or two before she went back north.
I’m in my upper sixties. Mary is in her upper fifties. I don’t know if Mary was ever a bathing beauty, but she looks more than OK for geriatric Sebring. Nearly any guy will stare at her copious tubing.
Anyway, Mary and I are in my boat, on Lake Istokpoga, anchored by the end of a stand of reeds and the beginning of a stand of lilies.
Wearing my wading shoes, a bathing suit, and tee shirt, I take my fly rod and go overboard to wade along the edges of the reeds, then the spatterdock lilies.
I look back, and there’s Mary: looking pretty cute with her round face, her rosy cheeks, her straw sun hat, her big bosom, diddling a bass worm by the reeds. I look again and a boat is approaching. The next time I look two men from the new boat have hold of my gunnel and are leaning overboard right into Mary’s face, right into Mary’s bosom.
Now what’s more basic to mammalian life than that males use caution when approaching females till it’s been checked very thoroughly whether the female is tended or untended? Any male, at a glance, should see that this female is tended: there’s a guy with a fly rod only a few leagues to the side. If they’re going to rape or abduct her, they should address me first: see how much fight I’ll put up; then, kill me, back off, whatever. The traveling salesman should see who else is home before he grabs hold of the quim of the woman who answers the door. Any wolf knows that, any coyote, any man.
But these clowns have hold of my gunnel. I start to wade over. The sun is directly in my eyes, I’m squinting, can’t see at all well. So far, Mary still seems to be all right.
Now Mary isn’t my woman. But these guys don’t know that. And Mary is my friend. And I know Mary’s boyfriend: he too is sort of my friend. Thus, for this situation, Mary IS my woman. I’m responsible for her: for the moment. It’s my boat. I drove her here, then motored, rowed. If I had a rifle, I should let them see it, whistle a round past their ear. God knows what weapons they’ve got: two men, a big fast boat. All I’ve got is the fly rod in my hand, clippers in my pocket to snip monofilament. My fly rod is my precious baby, custom made for me. Still, it’s graphite. If I shatter it it would reduce to one sharp son-of-a-bitching spear. I could stab one of the guys right through the throat while I worried what to do about the other one. Maybe either of them would have me gutted by then, unstrung, leaking bowl contents into the lake. Now I’m closer … Jesus! They’re armed. Pistol belts!
Oh, no. They’re in uniform. Oh Christ, it’s Darrel, the Water Management guy, and some clone. Rangers. Checking fishing licenses, registrations …
They’re not males; they work for the state.
Watch a bobcat work the edge of the canal. His steps, every one, have purpose, focus. Same with a coyote, a wolf: any wild creature. Now look at the amble of a domesticated pet: a dog, or the dog’s owner, a man. Shamble, amble, all over the place. No purpose, no focus. No fear! So stupid! Poke their nose without any sense that it can be bit off.
Funny. Soldiers don’t assume a place to be harmless. They throw a grenade in the doorway before looking. Then they look: down the barrel of a rifle.
Can combat be the only place left where men are natural?
Civilization: Oh, doh dee doh. … Till we’re run over.
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