“Well I wish I was a catfish / swimmin’ in the deep blue sea / I’d have all you pretty women / fishin’ after me.” –Muddy Waters “Catfish Blues”
Yesterday, before the second DJ show, I snagged a car nap, woke up groggy, and mixed up the floors at the retirement home.
“Nobody’s in the office” I yawned.
“Dude, that’s on the second floor.”
“Ohhhhh….! Do you have any coffee?”
It worked, and I drove home over the mountains, still wired, noodling.
Have you heard of noodling?
In a muddy lake or river down south, the noodler, “thinking like a fish”, feels around the invisible submerged riverbank, looking for a catfish lair.
He (or often she, check out YouTube for the ladies who prove the crazy : hot ratio as a mathematical fact) then puts his hand–or arm–right into the catfish’s mouth, who promptly bites the snack.
The noodler hauls out the chomping fish, still gnawing, and throws it in the boat.
This is how I do my thinking, muddy water of a cluttered mind and all.
As Lichtenstein painted in ‘61….
Look Mickey, I’ve hooked a BIG one.
(Roy Lichtenstein)
The Problem
A school of fish have been nibbling my toes and biting my ankles for years. I think it started in Baltimore. (Lots of problems do.)
But long before the Ravens failed to stop the Chiefs, a teenage me watched a guitar hero shred the stage in Charm City. Spellbound–almost, I couldn’t decide. Is this something to dedicate my life to?
I can’t blame psychology for lack of talent, but all through my serious years of music, something kept tickling my toes under that murky water.
Is this my passion?
Maybe you’ve been haunted by that question, driven into a frenzy by the search.
The gurus assure you that you’re in the right place. Suddenly, an echo falls out of place, discordant, and your breath catches for an instant.
Are they talking to me, or convincing themselves?
I left the path of music, and took up writing, seeking freedom from the shackles of a destiny.
Ah, since I’m not wrapped up in being a “writer”, who cares?
That lasted for about a month, the freedom collapsing into a fresh set of chains the first time I said
I’m a writer.
They’re much stronger now, too, because some people listen to what I say. (If they can hear me over the clanking.)
The Lies
Now there’s a shark fin circling me as I stand in this imaginary river.
Lies.
Of course. Have you noticed the rain always finds the hole in the roof, and the biggest fear becomes the immediate problem?
What’s deadly for someone who writes and speaks?
Lies.
The creative field seems rife with mental illness, a perverse push towards political propagandization of art, an inversion of reality itself, and a temperamental disposition of avoidance. The media shares much of the rot, too.
The line between genius and insanity has always been blurred. It’s never been safe to speak. Witches will always be burned at the stake. But….
Is it just me, or is it hot in here?
Did they cancel the boy in the Emperor’s New Clothes, or did they give him a book deal when he pointed out the obvious?
There’s a grain of truth in the insanity of the “silence is violence” mantra when you’re asked to applaud for the Emperor’s spiffy duds, or at least asked to say nothing.
I know it. And you know it. Why is there always an applause sign?
So I won’t.
The Fish
Driving over the mountains last night, I wrestled with these thoughts. Specific to me, yes. I’d like to make a living as a writer. How do I navigate this field? Can it be done?
(YAWN.)
But I live in the world, and you do, too. We’re asked to keep it turning on a daily basis. I suspect the question, in some way, applies to all of us.
Suddenly, a mighty chomp on my mental arm…And I hauled out a golden catfish.
It’s Idolatry.
It lay gasping in the boat, murderous.
That’s where I’m getting into trouble. I’m putting writing as the ultimate, when I know that’s a lie.
Oh sure, it’s hard to define God, but I know for sure he’s not writing. There’s obviously something more, and my placing career, money, or fame ahead of that is putting me in deep waters where I’ll surely drown.
So no, watching the Guitar Hero in Baltimore wasn’t the answer, either.
What a sense of freedom, of truth.
I’ve got some good buddies who are atheist, and I think this still applies: a.) you’ll serve the highest ideal you can posit, and b.) you can probably think of something better to do that write. (I welcome your thoughts, esteemed thinkers!)
In mad scientist mode, I started calling friends. It was late, and people were going to sleep. Poor Gabe texted at the wrong time, the notification wandering across my sights. I immediately called him.
“Hey man, you busy?”
“Uh, studying for a psychology exam, but got five minutes.”
I’m surprised his phone is still intact.
He asked me more about the idolatry business. I’ll expand on it, but…the woman who introduced me to the topic is Alannah Ferris, a good friend and colleague, author of Her Way Forward.
We’ll be doing a collaboration post soon, talking more about golden calves and lurking catfish.
Stay tuned.
And speak true.
By the way, happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. I hope you avoid all catfish today. Except the Muddy Waters song, of course.
–Josh
Great post, and the You Tube video cracked me up!