Me and Movies

When I watch a movie I focus on it. When the lights go down and I hit the "play" button, the isolation panels go up. I don't want interruptions of any kind. If the doorbell rings I will probably reluctantly answer it, but that's only because I know whoever out there can hear my movie and knows I'm home.  If the phone rings, however, it's another matter entirely. When I was married I would usually answer the phone because I would be expected to, but inside I would have annoyance or anger. "Who the hell is bothering me with a stupid phone call? Can't they see I'm in the middle of a movie?" Of course they can't.  That wouldn't stop me from clenching my teeth about it when it would happen.  During my single years I hardly ever answer the phone when it rings during a movie. For these reasons, really prefer watching a movie in a theater. In that setting, you're forced to turn off all interruptions like phones before the movie starts. That's the way movies should be watched.

I like lots of different kinds of movies. Although I do like your typical "guy" movies, I also like deep, emotional movies. Actually, they tend to be the ones that I dread interruptions the most while they are playing because the movie will have me by my interest and my emotions. I may be into the movie on a much deeper level than usual, which is already considerably captivated. I like many, many types of movies. My taste in them runs quite the range. I think my favorites are the "surprise hits" I never heard about. The ones I had no idea of how good they might be or sometimes not even knowing a lot of what they were about. I like the ones that get me misty-eyed from feeling, the ones that make my palms sweat from drama, and the ones that make my heart race from action. Movies I don't like? I don't like to see gore. I also don't like movies that are too centered on one character or scene, like those that could easily be performed as a play on stage. I don't like bad acting. There are too many really, really good actors out there--many who have yet to be discovered even--for a director to subject their audiences to substandard performances from people that should never have gotten the job. There are famous actors that I can't stand, and unknown actors that I've watched and loved. There are actors that used to be good but should have retired at the top of their game, and actors that have steadily gotten better with each role they have undertaken.

To me, movies are an escape and an artful expression. They are a chance to witness a story told and expressed the way someone else perceived it. Movies are especially riveting to people that don't have very good imaginations. Yes, like me. Although well-written books are the best way to make the imagination run wild, movies are great for one reason: They are a crash course of storytelling. They are a full-throttle, nonstop conglomeration of sensory input that crams an epic story into your mind, complete with sights, smells, and emotions. I like old movies and new movies, simple and complex, amazing and ordinary, laughing or crying. They are an art form that I can escape into for a couple of hours. I treasure those hours.

Secrets and Being Sneaky

To quote Nobel prize-winning author, Gabriel García Márquez:

"All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret."

Being sneaky and secretive is something that seems like it has always been a part of me. It may have been me just learning to get away with things. I remember constantly being harped on by my dad, as he'd hurl things like, "watch what you're doing!" or "pay attention!" or other "get yer head outta yer ass" type comments. Through those admonishments and my desire to avoid getting into a situation that would bring trouble, I learned what to do or not to do to stay in the clear. I learned I could mess with practically anything I wasn't supposed to mess with if I did it right. All I had to do was note exactly how things were placed, how they were stacked, direction they were facing, and all those sorts of things before I got into something I wasn't supposed to be getting into.

I also got good at being quiet. Stealthy might be a better description.  When you live in an older house, there are squeaks and noises that the house makes as you interact with it.  I learned things like, turning a particular doorknob made a squeak if you turned it the usual direction, but was totally quiet if you turned it the other way instead.  I learned to navigate the entire house avoiding floor squeaks.  It's not that I was trying to get away with anything (well okay--I'm sure I was occasionally up to no good), it was mostly just my way of celebrating the solitude of an empty house by not adding a single sound to it.  I'm the same way outside.  When I'm walking alone, I don't whistle, shuffle, or anything like that.  I tread lightly.  I don't try to be quiet--I just am.  I just feel I have to be.  When I'm alone in the woods, such as in the special place I like to go in the summer to be without clothes, I walk carefully, choosing to avoid making any sounds.  It just seems wrong to make a sound in those kind of conditions--almost sacrilegious. I walk like I'm stalking prey.

As I grew a little older, siblings became more intrusive into my privacy. Everyone knows the firstborn child doesn't have to learn sharing until their first brother or sister comes along, then their world suddenly has new rules. Confusing rules. They also struggle with the fact that they are no longer the center of attention in their family.  That fact may have something to do with my comedic nature. I think I realized I had to earn the attention instead of it just automatically being there like it always had been previously. I don't know how I was at sharing. I'm sure I had some trouble with it. Most kids do. Anyway, as I got older I started to value my space. I had places and things that were mine and mine alone, and I made sure it was understood. I remember having a box of "treasures" that I kept a watchful eye on. There was nothing in it of any value. It was just mine. My hallowed ground. My private things.

I began to appreciate quiet, private time away from the mainstream more and more as I got older. When I was a teen and had the usual problematic mix of raging hormones and anti-authority, I had a growing desire to strike out on my own. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to have my own place. A place that would be mine and mine alone. A place where I didn't have to be sneaky to be private. A place where I could do anything I wanted to, any time I wanted to, and would never have to worry about having to explain my actions or whereabouts to anyone. I wanted freedom.

Now I'm older, and I'm no less sneaky.  Actually, maybe even more so.  I have secret pictures, alternate email addresses, and private stories.  This blog itself is a prime example.  Very few people in my life know of its existence.  (Side note: Feel free to share this blog with friends or family if you ever find out that I have died for whatever reason.  These writings are just as important of a part of who I am as my public writings.)  It's not that I want to do anything to cause any harm--it's just a part of me that I need to have present inside.

It's my individuality.

Lone Survivor

As an avid reader and movie-watcher, some of my favorite tales are those that take place in a post-apocalyptic world. I have romanced the notion of my being one of the last people on earth many times. Although I know I'm carrying my love for solitude to the extreme, it seems to be an exciting combination of personal survival and abandoning societal rules and standards. Becoming nomadic out of necessity, moving through empty towns that were once bursting with human activity, gathering what I need to add to my hoard to ensure my survival. I think I would like the notion of being able to wear no clothing as I existed as a lonely wanderer.

There are plenty of flaws in such a dream, and I know that any world that rises up and casts mankind from its shadow would be no less hostile to me--it's lone survivor. Maybe even more so. Still, it's an interesting fantasy, albeit one of loneliness, hunger, danger, and fear. Maybe what I need is something in my life to just mix things up. A drastic change perhaps. Realistically, I think I would like to live somewhere in a desert situation, like southern Utah or northern Arizona for example. Off the grid so to speak.

To have myself be far enough from everywhere that I could escape the traps of man--the things that we have brought upon ourselves. We've painted ourselves into a corner we can't get out of. We've escalated our needs and wants to an unhealthy level. We are so busy just keeping upright on the treadmill we've created that we don't know how to get off. Everyone walks around with their face cast downward, eyes glued to their little electronic umbilical cord, not realizing that we've given our freedom away little by little. Incrementally, our love for all things electronic has placed us in a rut. We unknowingly embraced a digital world that is tailor-made for eavesdropping, information-gathering, and identity-stealing. One of these days the collective population will wonder how we could have let this happen. I know how it happened, it's simple: because it was fun. It was new and exciting. To be so plugged in to the rest of the world was amazing! Little by little we have gotten to the point that we are announcing every single thing we do all day long to the rest of the world. Yeah, it would be nice to unplug and regress back away from society and just spend my time unclothed and unencumbered.

The Passive Exhibitionist

During a recent bit of introspection and self-analysis, I coined a new term.  I am what I call a "passive exhibitionist."  I don't force myself on people, but I will place myself in hopes that someone notices me.  If it's a party or gathering of some kind I might be figuratively in the background during conversation, but I'll make a quip or answer a question that will steer the conversation.  The idea is to do something to put the focus will be on something involving me.  I will feign surprise or nonchalance, but unabashedly tell a tale, throwing my comedic slant on the delivery.  After the right amount of interaction, I will duck out or wander away at a point where the timing is appropriate.  It's a "don't overstay your welcome" kind of thing.  I don't want to dominate a conversation, but I do want to be the focus of it for a short time.

A few people that know me know me as a nudist at heart.  They know I would just as soon not be wearing clothes.  The truth is, my passive exhibitionist streak exists there too.  I will choose to be bare in a place where it's not completely out of the ordinary, but there still might be a very small chance of discovery--like my back yard for example.  When I'm lying in the sun I sometimes hope someone will stumble upon me.  There have been many times where I will leave my robe on the chair in the dining room when I'm going to go out to the garage for something and make the trek completely bare.  I know--based on the time of day, nobody being home, or whatever--that there is a chance I could be caught, but it's highly unlikely.  I might walk out to the wood pile behind the garage to get some wood, and purposely leave my robe loose in hopes it comes open on the way back when my hands are full.  Sure, I could be caught, but it would look innocent enough.

My writings follow a parallel.  I put secretive things about me on display.  I bare my soul to the world, knowing the chance of anyone really reading it are probably very slim.

The internet has enabled me.  I am able to hide behind the anonymity of my choosing if I so desire.  I can be anyone I want to be, and be as public or private as I want to be. I can post things like this blog to a place where I'm not covering up my identity, nor am I announcing it publicly.  There are also those times I have created a persona that was anonymous just so I could post things and live a little dangerously.  I had no particular plan or goal, I just wanted to put myself out there a little further than usual.  Every time I have ever done that--bar none--I have eventually deleted my account.  The thrill I initially had when I started had worn thin and was finally gone, and I no longer had that urge to be the passive exhibitionist.

Dancing in the Rain

A peculiar feeling came over me as I lay in bed this morning.

I wake easily, and I'm usually awake fairly early.  This morning was no exception.  I awoke somewhere around 4:30 or so, but being a weekend I didn't have to get up.  I tried a few various changes in the way I was laying to see if I could get back to sleep.  None worked.  As I lay there, my mind started waking up.  Thoughts started speeding up, and I started thinking about all kinds of things.  It was obvious I was not going to get back to sleep, so I pulled out my ear plugs and put them on the night stand.  I hate ear plugs, but wear them out of necessity.  I can go to sleep at night at the drop of a hat, but when I've been asleep for more than two hours I can wake at the slightest sound.  Wearing earplugs will keep me from waking up when my wife comes to bed, and also help if she gets into a particularly noisy bout of snoring.

Anyway, back to what I was talking about.

When I took my earplugs out, I was immediately in a different place.  Instead of the usual muted hissing from my tinnitus, I was hearing a quiet Sunday morning in a sleeping house, only this time I could hear the rain on the roof, and the water cascading down the downspout.  I sleep wearing nothing, and I enjoy it.  Probably because I was already naked, the thought of going outside in the rain with no clothes on crossed my mind.  That's all it took.  The more I thought about it the more I started thinking how fun it would be to go outside bare and enjoy the rain.  It was still dark, there was almost zero chance of anyone else catching me.  Besides, there was already a towel hanging outside near the hot tub.  Why not?

Suddenly motivated, I slid out of bed and put my robe on.  On the way through the house I turned the heat on, pushed the button on the already-loaded coffee pot, and went to the back door.  I put flip-flops on and stepped through the sliding glass door, closing it slowly.  I stood there under the eaves for a moment, enjoying the sound of raindrops falling around me.  It actually wasn't very cold at all.  I suddenly realized I had bypassed the bathroom in my hurry to experience this private moment.  Goaded into action by the need to pee, I took my robe off and carefully laid it over the firewood rack against the wall, and stepped out onto the deck and into the natural shower, enjoying the naturist feeling that was enveloping me.

The rain sounded harder than it felt, but it felt wonderful as it pelted my bare skin and started cascading down my body.  I leaned my head back, letting it kiss my face.  Cursing my glasses, I removed them so I would leave no place untouched by the rain.  I reached up and wiped the rain all over my face, smearing the cool water and refreshing me.  I put my glasses back on and stepped to the edge of the deck.  Then I remembered the motion light on the garage.  Damn that light!  I have been surprised by that garish light before and was glad I remembered it before it came on this time.  I knew a certain range I could venture fairly safely before triggering it, but I still played it safe and moved slowly.  I was in no hurry anyway.  Just off the deck I stopped.  Again I leaned my head back and enjoyed the rain plastering my face as I wiped my body all over like I was soaping up in nature's shower.  I stepped back up onto the deck and enjoyed the rain for a few minutes more.  I looked over at the sliding door, and there was the cat, watching me, wondering what one of her humans was doing out there in the rain with no covering.  About that time I started to chill and went for the hot tub towel.

I went in to a nice, warm house and the coffee was almost ready to pour.  It was a most excellent beginning to my day.

Okay, I didn't really dance in the rain... Physically anyway.  In my mind, however, I was doing cartwheels.

Violating the Night

The house was silent as I turned off the light and walked to the door. Slowly wrenching the door open, I winced as it complained on squeaky hinges, the outer storm door clicking all the way shut from the suction.

I had violated the stillness of night.

I stepped out into the cold and closed the door as quietly as I could, unknowingly holding my breath.  Fumbling in the dark, my key finally found its target and I turned the lock, hearing the soft clack of the bolt sliding home. Gazing upward, I breathed in the solitude of the stars. I walked out to the driveway, looking upward as I did so. Listening. There was no sound in the world but my own breathing. I stopped before I left the smooth concrete slab that masked the sound of my footsteps. Again looking upward, I let myself float away.

It felt as if the stars were displaying themselves to me--only me. In all the world there was no one else scanning the heavens at that moment. I was the solitary man facing the infinity of the universe. In an apparent greeting, they winked softly at me as I gazed. I relaxed my eyes, almost letting them close, as I took a slow, deep breath of the cold night. I tasted the quiet sweetness of the air as it passed into my body, feeling a slight vertigo as my mind thanked me. I breathed outward, at once both exhaling and emitting a sigh of resignation. I knew I must continue. I stepped off the concrete, resuming the short walk to my car.

Then again I violated the stillness of the night.

My footsteps on the gravel echoed loudly, threatening to wake the sleeping. They were amplified in the still morning, and I apologized silently to the world for daring to disturb the emptiness. I sighed with relief as my footsteps were once again silent when they reached the firmness of the asphalt road. As carefully as I could, I put my key into the door and unlocked the car. Opening the door, I slid onto the seat and started the car. Oddly, I felt no qualms about starting the car--perhaps because I felt safe there, sitting within its confines. The night was cold, however, and I opened the door with my ice scraper in hand, wielding it with heaviness, with the feeling I was on my way to commit a crime. Standing next to my car, I looked up at the stars. They seemed to be watching me, waiting for me to do what they knew I had to do. I looked down and I placed the scraper against the icy smoothness of the windshield and pushed.

Once more I violated the stillness of the night.

The car was already running, humming quietly, but even so the scream that was released by the complaining scraper made me close my eyes and pause momentarily. I winced, expecting every porch light on every house to snap on, their doors to open, and dogs their dogs to start barking. When that thankfully didn't happen, I resumed my task, almost feeling like I was breaking the law and finding myself in a hurry to get it finished and get out of there. I drove away, breathing a sigh of relief.

Behind me, the night was still once again.

The Twin vs. the Solitary Man

I'm not a too much of a believer in things intangible--astrology included, and yet, there is something real about the Gemini astrological sign.  There must be.  How else could I explain the strange polar opposites that occur in so many of my personality traits? Gemini (May 21-June 20) is the sign of the Twins.  So many things in the world can be described by the Gemini opposites.  Left and Right, Yin and Yang, Salt and Pepper, Good and Bad--the comparisons go on and on.  The description of a Gemini on this site is me almost to a tee.  I'm constantly battling two sides of myself. I want to be famous for something, yet, I want distance. Part of me wants to be public, while part of me wants to hide. I want to be in a parade but I want to wear a mask. When I want to be noticed its more like I hope to be noticed. I would be a guy that might clear my throat while pretending to be preoccupied--just so people will notice what I'm doing. It's like a strange inner turmoil going on that never seems to wane.  I have an exhibitionist side and a private side.   Part of me wants everyone to read my blog, and the other part won't tell anyone about it.  I want to be noticed, but I don't want anyone to notice me.  I want everyone to notice me, but I don't want to draw attention to myself.  I want to share things about myself, but I don't want anyone to find out about me.  I am my own enemy.  Sometimes I feel that everyone in the world is watching me.  An hour later, I'm doing or saying something in hopes everyone in the world will watch me. Sometimes the Twins take on the classic, "angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other" scenario, but when that does happen the good side usually wins.  I have certain ethics.

I've always been a clown. I've probably deep down had a desire to be appreciated. I want to be the one that makes a memorable remark, posts a memorable cartoon, or writes a memorable poem. Take my poetry blog for example. Although I may have many things there that I'm very proud of, I usually don't recommend it to anyone. Not any more. I've come to the realization that people generally don't give a damn about poems. I found that out one time when I posted a link to my poems on Facebook. I don't remember exactly what I said in the post, but I purposefully linked the main blog page instead of just the single post in hopes that people might spend some time exploring them all. I thought, "Maybe they'll see that there is something more to me, that I'm not just the glib person I appear to be on the outside." Did that happen? No. I may have gotten a comment and/or a "like" but that's it. Like many people that are proud of their work, I was seeking approval. I just wanted to be able to shrug my shoulders and feign a little, "aw, it was nothin..." While beaming broadly inside. I hoped for some sort of acknowledgment after posting a link to my private writings. Sure, some are whimsical and goofy, but many poured from my heart and soul.

When I get scorned a part of me shuts down. I can't help it. I get quiet and I retreat. The problem with being an adult is that there is no "retreat." I can't just go somewhere when I want to have total quiet without sparking some sort of resentment from my wife. In her mind I would be avoiding her. That would cause the exact opposite to happen. Instead of the solitude I wanted, I would be bombarded with questions and requests that I talk if something is bothering me. I can't seem to get it understood that I can easily sit all day long and never say a word when there is nothing wrong. I'm not hiding, mad, or sick every time I'm quiet and stand-offish. Sometimes I just want to be alone. I crave solitude sometimes. I respect solitude all of the time. During cold, winter mornings that I had to go to work, I actually felt ashamed to spoil the total stillness by scraping my windows.  It was so quiet and serene out there.  There was solitude.  I was the only one in the world.  I wanted to just stand there, taking deep breaths and enjoying the feeling with my eyes closed.  Instead, I literally winced when the first scrape pierced the quiet of the morning.  Some people choose to live their lives by themselves and some are thrust into it unwillingly. For me, I am one of those people that think I would love to live a solitary life, but on my terms. Meaning when I wanted human interaction I would seek it out. There are many times when I'm happy to sit all by myself in a crowded place and observe the variety of people that are scurrying around and going about their business. People watching. It's fun, and it provides me with some social interaction--though not personally. Plus, I can turn it off and leave any time I want.  Maybe I'm just being selfish, or maybe I've just never met anyone that was in tune with me.

Being the solitary person in certain situations has a sort of spiritual reward to me too. I'm not a believer in the bible, but there are times when a feeling of awe overwhelms me. The feeling that I am but a speck in the middle of something huge and grandiose. Sitting on a high hilltop, ocean beach, vast desert, or a scenic cliff--those are the times I get a feeling of deep introspection. I can sit in those places for hours and hours, all alone with my thoughts. If I were not by myself, not only would the quiet be lost, but so would the spiritual feeling. If you look up definitions of spiritual, only part of them have to do with religion. One of the definitions that I'm talking about is this: "having a mind or emotions of a high and delicately refined quality." I'm not saying my mind is either refined or high quality. I'm saying that in certain natural places, conditions, or situations I have the feeling of such.

I have been a source of controversy for years about the fact that I get up two hours before I need to every morning. People can't understand why anyone in their right mind would do such a thing if they didn't have to. You know why? Solitude. For those two hours I own the world. I can be here in my chair at my computer with no distractions, no interruptions, and no expectations. Add to that the fact that my mind is so much clearer and I feel more able to draw from within when I'm trying to write things down. The frustrating part is, lately I've found that I have some of my best ideas, notions, or little "seeds" of inspiration come to me an hour or two before bed. I can't really act on them then. To do so would be a battle of constant interruption with "what are you doing?" or that I'm ignoring or being neglectful. No, instead I try to jot down notes so that I can act on them during my morning "me" time the following day. Sometimes I can remember the train of thought that was behind the idea and sometimes not, but at least I have a chance.

Splash of Feeling

Sometimes when I find myself on the cusp of boredom (which happens rarely for me due to my wandering mind) I am struck with a desire to be outside. I feel a sudden yearning to remove myself from the comfortable place I'm most likely sitting and subject my entire sensory system to new input all at once. Instantly. I want to experience a total input shift. I want to feel the biting cold on my cheeks, the cold, dripping rain on my head, or the blustery winter wind on my face. I want to feel alive. I want to walk alone and feel insignificant in the presence of nature. I want to see, to hear, to feel my surroundings. It's as if I wanted a change as sudden as closing my eyes from the comfort of a warm, fireplace-heated lodge, and opening them up to the salty mist pelting my face while I'm trying to keep my balance on a wind-tossed ship. It's as if I want to go from BEING to LIVING.

My wife would wonder why I wanted to go alone. She would think I am trying to escape--from her, from the house, from us. No, I'm not feeling the sudden desire to go from, I'm feeling the desire to go to.

I want to smell the wind as it carries the perfume of pine to my nostrils from up high in the rustling trees. I want to hear the lonely sound of my footsteps as they shuffle along the empty road. I want to smell the unseen tendrils of wood smoke that waft out of chimneys and out over the land. I want to breathe the damp drizzle that brushes the air clean and turns my glasses to an opaque haze. I want to walk a path that's choked with fallen leaves and enjoy the earthy smell of their decay.

Then, I want to instantly transport myself back to the comforting warmth of the wood stove.

The Social Fisherman

I sit in the boat by myself and look around warily.  "I hope nobody sees me here," I think.  I look around some more, then I sit, monitoring my surroundings--getting a feel for the place.  It looks interesting.  "This looks like a good place to try my luck," I think to myself.

I put part of me on the hook.  I am the bait.

Without a second thought, I cast my line out--not knowing what I'm even trying to catch.  Hoping for something to happen, I check and re-check my line.

Nothing.

I start to get a little nervous.  Why am I doing this?  If I catch something?  Will I even know what to do with it?

Then suddenly I get a nibble.  I have something on my line!  I alternately reel and pull, and after a few exchanges a beautiful fish leaps up out of the water and shows itself.

It's the wrong type of fish.  I don't know what kind of fish it was, but in that instant I saw it I knew it was not for me.  What do I do?  Continue to reel it in?  Cut it loose?  Just then the line breaks and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I didn't have to face my catch.

Why did I get this variety of fish?  Maybe I used the wrong bait.  Should I even be fishing?  Yes, I should.  I know it's dangerous, but that's why I want to do it.  It makes me feel alive.  It's against the rules and nobody knows I'm doing it.  I look around.  It still looks safe for the moment.

I put another hook on my line and place another tidbit of myself out there into the waters and wait. As I slowly reel the line closer to me and the boat I see a fish circling.  After just a moment it's joined by another fish, both of them are sizing up my bait.  Oh no--they are young fish!  I don't want fish that young.  Sure, they may be the best fish I ever caught, but it wouldn't be right to hook such a young fish.  It's frowned upon.  I make my decision at the same time one of the fish lunges at what I have dangling.  Instantly, I yank upward, narrowly missing hooking it.  Whew.  I would never be able to explain why I kept such a young fish.  Both wrong and illegal.

Again my mind wrestles with what I'm doing.  The thirst for excitement outweighs the wrongdoing.  I sigh, change my bait, and cast again.

It floats on the water serenely, nothing taking it.  Time goes by and still nothing.  I know there are plenty of fish because they've left signs.  Maybe the fish don't like the bait I've offered?  Perhaps it's too old?

I reel my line in and examine the bait.  I try to be objective, but to me it still seems like worthy bait to me.  Maybe I just need to embellish it somehow.  Make it seem better than it really is.  Maybe that's it.  I fluff and tease the bait, carefully arranging it until I'm certain I have bait that is irresistible.  Yes, it looks more impressive than it did before.

I cast my line again.  It no sooner hits the water again when I hear someone coming behind me.  Oh no!  I have no time to pull the line in, so I quickly drop the pole down on the floor of the boat, hoping no fish hits it while it's still accessible.  The boat came out of nowhere when I wasn't paying attention.  My heart beating through my chest, I just sit there nonchalantly like I might be sitting on any other day.

That was close--I was almost caught.  When the coast is clear I raise my pole and quickly reel it in.

I reach backward and cast my line back out--this time in a new direction.

In no time, a fish starts teasing me.  I can feel slight little tugs as a fish sizes me up, toying with me, likely to see what I'm going to do, to see what my game is.

Suddenly, my pole bends and my reel starts spinning furiously.  I don't know whether to grab it and try to stop it from spinning or what.  This fish has a lot of energy!  Do I want to toy with such a fish?  After all, I'm getting up in years.  I decide that the fish is either very strong, very energetic, or just plain big.  None of them appeal to me.  I reach into my pocket and grab my pocket knife, and reaching up, I sever the line.

Whew.

I realize I'm probably in over my head here.  I'm very vulnerable to being caught, but I think I have anonymity from all the fish below.  Or do I?  My bait will be dangling out there where millions of eyes can potentially see it, and I really don't know what will latch onto it.  And what if it does?  What if I do haul in a prize trophy with my trolling?  What then?  I certainly can't keep it.  I wasn't even supposed to be here.  Do I just admire it and let it go?  If I catch and release, will it hurt the fish?  Will the fish forever carry scars of our meeting?

I sigh and resign myself to the fact that I apparently just like being here and dangling my bait.  It's off limits and highly dangerous, but that appeals to me.  It's also because I like to see if I still have what it takes to hook something.

I must be crazy.  Do I want to get caught?  Of course not.

I sigh, look around, and start putting a new hook on my pole.  Apparently, I just can't stop fishing.  It's the excitement, the element of danger.  I need it.