“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself.” –Soren Kierkegaard
OK, taking a break from all the heavy shit I’ve been laying down these past few weeks. Trust me, I am definitely not too busy shoveling dirt on myself. Maybe, I’m like taking for granted that life goes on for all of us, one inch at a time.
On the other hand, why in God’s name do you want to hear what I did yesterday? Who I saw and at least two photographs to corroborate this once in a lifetime event? Who the fuck needs me for that, when there is already insurmountable competition in that arena?
You know, when I published my book, I really didn’t care about anybody’s reaction, because it was truly written for my little grandson. I know he will love it his whole life, along with all these stories that have followed. While I started writing these stories because of him, they have become for you. I am just around twelve years into this sharing and love it even more with the passage of time.
I am not sure I am ever happier than when I sit down to write. It’s the closest I ever get to be with myself. The words are always a mirror into some part of me that I want to share. In conversation, I can be an ice cold cynic, because it uses a heavier language, far beyond the intimacy of the shared word with you.
A couple of weeks ago, I bought a cheap-ass fishing pole, because of a significant change in my angling repertoire. I am going to talk about it in a second, but that’s not the part of the story I want to share right now, and you’ll see why. My equally urgent mission was to get some balls, that’s right, some balls. I bought a stubby plastic tube, with three, fuzzy yellow, tennis balls. I was jazzed with both acquisitions.
Maybe, around a month ago, I had a thought, which came out of some distant, muscle memory and a healthy moment of presence. I tried to figure out the last time I had a catch of any kind, with anyone, with any kind of ball. I don’t recall having one here on Kauai and it’s been twenty years. I’d have to go back to New Mexico, but the intense sun in the high desert country melted my memory.I did set up a hoop at my first adobe home, off a dead-end, dirt road, off another dirt road, but that was thirty-five years ago!
I was really into having catches with my sons as soon as they could walk. I had a double motivation for this. Before going any further, it is very important to share that I was an incredibly, shitty athlete as a kid. In softball, I was in right field, chosen last and fine with it. Just so you know, I might have been incredibly self-conscious, but no fucken way I was ever socially intimidated as a result. If you promise not to tell anyone, I did just fine in that regard, border-line legendary in Queens.
My father was alive until I was nine and he was the consummate non-athlete. He was a cultured opera-lover, which I will get to in a second. He was part of that transitional generation of Europeans during the early Time of Adolph. Anyway, neither my brother or I were encouraged in that realm. We had to resort to leaning against walls and looking as cool as we could.
I wanted my boys to be exposed to life’s physicality and having a catch was perfect. We had hundreds. I even remember camping with both my sons in Santa Fe and bringing baseball gloves and a ball and a football. I am pretty sure I had that stuff when I moved there, from my Dad days in NYC.
A few nights ago, I had my first catch with my neighbor. Yes, with a furry, yellow ball. I couldn’t believe how well it went. I am sure I looked like a fucken gazelle, but I felt like Nureyev. Age changes so many things. I am thrilled with how the catch went and it can carry me until I do it again and I will. It felt so incredibly familiar. I was totally at home in my body, remembering the long ago moves.
After all these years, I really don’t think about my father very often. In our short time together, I had no idea who the fuck he was. He came from a time when parents were completely full of shit, playing roles like prison sentences. Back then, parents lead these dual lives and it was transparent as shit to kids like us.
I thought of him a few nights ago, when I was listening to my music, something I always do. Actually, if it is possible to love and listen to music too much, I am in the running. Some aria by Pavarotti came on. I listened. I cried hard. I thought of my father, who loved opera. Every Sunday, he’d sit in this fat, dreary grey, club chair and listen to the NY Metropolitan Opera live on radio. Wow, that’s why opera makes me cry?
When I got those fuzzy, yellow guys, I did get a shitty rod I could use for whipping. Don’t be alarmed, it is a fishing term. In the beginning of the year, I wrote about getting involved in fishing, which has been a trip on more levels than I could even write about. I feel like I am moving very slowly into it, because I will be doing it the rest of my life. So, what’s the hurry?
I now have two fully rigged, fishing rods in my car at all times, the longer one sticking out, through a crack in the window. The protruding one is for Dunking and the el cheapo is for Whipping. Look em up if you need to know what they mean, but it’s not important. Suffice it to say, I am now a dual threat at the shore line. Not only that, I just bought a bunch of Hawaiian Moon Fishing Calendars. It tells you when to fish for what. I got them for several, serious fishermen at the brewery, who’ve been very generous with their sharing.
For some reason, without any personal experience, it’s something I shared with my sons, when they were young. We fished a number of times and I had gear for them. In thinking about this story, once I started writing it, my father came up yet again. When I was a kid, a saw an old b&w photo of my father, when he was in Palestine, even before emigrating to the US. He had a fishing pole in his hand. It had to be in the 1930’s.
After my most recent, fishless journey to the shoreline, I grabbed that quote from Kierkeegaard to start off this story, before I had written a word. It turns out, I was afraid of losing my footing, as I stepped over some rocks and sea hardened pieces of wood. I didn’t like what my mind was doing and I was getting mixed signals from my body. Shit, this is what an old guy must feel like!
Honestly, some of it is just a body responding to years and years of use. I know that, but it can still be disconcerting. It didn’t take me long to shoot passed that to the whole idea of a life devoid of daring or chance, a life lived in a box. I can’t let that happen to me.
It’s why I am going to Alaska in a couple of weeks. I know when my flight arrives in Wrangell, AK and I know who is picking me up. I know nothing else. I don’t want to. The only thing I am certain is that I am calling the stories, Larry Goes To Alaska. Don’t want to say any more right now.
Listen, I am sorry this is so long. I would really like to think when you read this, it makes you tell yourself your own stories. All these things are going on and some of them are deeply rooted within us, when we take the time to think about them.
I want to thank my father, Daniel Feinstein, for making me possible. His absence has had a profound presence throughout my life.