A COMFORTABLE BOWL TO DIE IN

Precarious rowings among the lilies with logs
And sudden shallows under your prow are what
Win water lilies for eager children. The lilies
Go into a bowl of water on the kitchen table.

As the morning and then the afternoon progress,
The flowers close, the petals discolor. Removed
From the place where they were nurtured and flourished,
They become secretive, and their secrets change.

You stare at the most recent capture, which is still
Open. "Tell me," you say, "before you iris
Shut like your sisters. What exactly are you hiding?
If you tell no one, then your secret will be safe,

But there will also be no one to tell tomorrow
Of your today. What is the center of you,
And why does it seem so important -- and not just
To you, but to me, who can't find it, and never

Saw it, and thinks it might be religion? A secret
so important that it might even silence
the children arguing in the other room?" The slowly
Shutting white petals and the yellow tendrils

They surround, all waving in at the absence
Of a central citadel, look you right in the eye
And say, "If we told you, that would ruin it."
"It's ruined anyway," you say; "you're dying."

"We don't seek answers for ourselves," sigh
The petals, "and we don't exist to provide you
With answers. Say, shouldn't there be something
Right between your eyes? Other than the bridge

Of your nose, we mean. We don't know what
On earth it might be, but you seem incomplete
Without it. Amazing! We, too, can tell the world
What it ought to be, and rage at it when it won't

Comply. Thank you for bringing us flowers religion."
"Just for that," you say, "I'll kill more of you tomorrow.
One by one you will perish in the torture-bowl
Until one of you tells me the answer."

POOR BERNARD

or, What I Did On My Summer Vacation

by Gowan Pig


1. On Fishing

This involves sitting in a rowboat with a fishing rod for an unspecified period, repeatedly casting your lure and drawing it back. There is something hypnotic, almost Zen, about this activity in and of itself. If you have the turn of mind to appreciate such sport, it is easy to see how fishing can become an addictive pastime, even when one fails to catch any actual fish. The hypnotic aspect is facilitated by an idyllic setting such as Green Lake affords. The trees, the deep, deep blue sky, the clouds, all making their reflections in the water, which is sometimes rippled by wind and sometimes so still as to be almost glassy. The sun moves in and out among the big white fluffy clouds and casts shifting shadows on the hillsides, on the trees, on the water, and on you, as you cast the lure, and reel it in, and cast the lure, and reel it in, world without end, amen. The boat slowly drifts toward one shore or another, but do you care? No. You only look for a relatively weed-free area in which to make your casts (though you should keep in mind that the fish tend to haunt the weeded, lilypadded areas, as they don't like direct sunlight). For even a lifelong irreligious such as this author, it almost becomes possible, as the afternoon passes in this sylvan, lovely way, to believe in God.

2. On Actually Catching Something

The sylvan loveliness, Zen meditation bit pretty much ends right here, especially if, as in the case of the present author, you are so unfortunate as to get the freaking Loch Green Monster on your first nibble. This will present something of a challenge, for which your experience thus far at reeling in and disposing of various types of lake weed will have in no way prepared you. For example, even your larger clumps of lake weed are unlikely to attempt to tow you into the deepest part of the lake so that they can overturn the boat, dump you ignominiously into the water, and have their way with you.

This is a time for perseverance, a very strong pair of hands, and a good sense of balance. Unfortunately, it is also a very good time to have the first clue about what you are doing, which did not apply in the case of the present author, who had not been fishing since fifth-grade camp thirty years earlier. He eventually received some post hoc advice -- after he returned to shore shaking, sweating, cursing, and vowing vengeance -- which involved pulling steadily on one end and letting the fish wear itself out and reeling it in while it was resting, or some such. He is not at all sure that, even had he received this advice in a more timely fashion (such as *before* he set out to do battle with powers and principalities), it would have been efficacious. He did battle with this bloody kraken for a full fifteen minutes, occasionally losing his grip on the reel to be sure, but generally regaining control quite quickly, and his opponent never tired, and had the rod bent nearly double most of the time. He (the present author, that's to say) remembers thinking "This is either the friskiest log I have ever encountered, or the fish that ate Chicago." He also remembers thinking "There is no way I'm backing down, no way. He'll give before I do, though Hell should gape."

The more outdoor-sportishly inclined readers out there will have guessed at the outcome: the line snapped, leaving the present author with a quite useless rod (the tackle box being ashore) and a foolish expression on his face. But if this fifteen-minute contest between man and fish served no concrete purpose, it did have the effect of transforming a mild-mannered, rather shy, bookish, reclusive man into a sort of cut-rate Captain Ahab.

He looked about him and found the day less pleasant than before. The dark shadows of clouds moving on the surface of the water were no longer conducive to a meditative stupor, but instead seemed to hint at dark forces moving beneath the surface of the world. The distant bellowing of the cows, or perhaps moose, or possibly dinosaurs, no longer filled his head with pastoral visions out of Virgil or Milton, but made him think of coelacanth and mokele-mbembe, and wonder just what manner of creature he would see if the bellows drew nearer. He was in fact experiencing a practical demonstration of something he had long suspected, that the picture of country life favored by city-bred authors such as Milton, with its piping poetical swains and their indolent pretty lives, was total bollocks, and that a country-bred author such as Will Shakespeare, with his "nature red in tooth and claw," was much nearer the mark.

But enough of that. He returned to shore, a fire in his brain, to tell his friends of his harrowing encounter with the Beast From 20,000 Fathoms (which tale met with less awe and admiration and more hilarity than he had been hoping for), and to get a new lure for his line. Cat showed him how to put it on. Then, pausing only to make an appropriate quotation --

The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge
Cry God for Harry, England and St George!

-- he rowed back to the Harfleur Inlet, with his liberally sunburned arms, and began casting again.

In less than half an hour, he had another nibble, but he knew from the fact that he was able to reel it in steadily that this was not the leviathan of earlier, but some lesser, more modest fish. When it broke the water, a fish of perhaps ten inches, and the author was able to witness its struggles first hand, this had the unexpected effect of bringing his natural cringing humility to the fore again.

He had an urge to get rid of this fish and keep casting for the other, more impressive beast, but the overriding thought which occurred was "While this fish is certainly not worthy of the other, maybe you aren't either. There is also the practical consideration that, having caught even this titmouse of a fish, you now have no idea how to proceed." And so, in the hope of obtaining expert advice, he set his flopping, writhing prize in the bottom of the boat, and put out his oars for home.


3. On Getting Your Fish Off The Line

This may present not only a challenge but a daunting challenge if, like the present author, you are unused to handling live fish and have never killed anything larger than a water bug, and even that made you uneasy because of the insect guts and the unexpectedly large amount of fluid. There may be species variations to take into account here, but with a largemouth bass, such as the one caught by the present author, the thing to be careful of is the dorsal fin, on its back just abaft its head. The spines thereof can pierce you badly if you approach them incautiously.

What you do is hold the line with one hand so that the fish -- the gasping fish, struggling for his life -- let us call him Bernard -- is dangling down in the classic "doomed fish" position. Pass your other hand down over the fish, taking good care not to stick a finger in the fish's mouth. Since the fin spines are orientated toward the aft end of the fish, you should be able to lay them flat and so render them harmless. Take a good firm grip. Now, very carefully, you must work the hook all the way through the flesh where it has caught, and then back out again. Put Bernie in a bucket, and put lakewater in the bucket, enough to cover him.

As a side note, you should be prepared for the attitude of any children who happen to be nearby. They will all want to see Bernard, and attempt to become personally involved with him. They may want to know if you have a tank to keep him in so that they can visit him, which may necessitate an embarrassing explanation. ("I am about to brutally murder this fish, precious poppet.") They will attempt to stroke the fish, if they are hardy, courageous children. A particularly fearless two year old can be worrying, with repeated requests for public viewing ("Wanna see!") and for identification ("What's that?"). Physical contact is inadvisable because of the dorsal fin as mentioned, and because the fish may be saving up a last, desperate burst of energy so as to maul whoever happens to be near. Also, children might contrive, whether accidentally or intentionally, to dump the fish back into the lake, though once you have read the next section you may find this option preferable.

And so, bright the day and high your heart, you carry dear Bernard up to the fish cleaning table. It is best to arrange this particular matter ahead of time, for if you use someone's dining table for a fish cleaning table, they will not be best pleased. A table specifically for cleaning fish is what you want, and make sure you have bleach water and a scrub brush for when you are done.

The next part of our program is not recommended for those of a nervous disposition.


4. On Cleaning Your Fish

You lay the fish down on the cleaning table, getting a good grip on its tail. (Paper towel may be helpful.) You insert a good sharp knife in the gill area and cut the living Christ out of it. The idea is to connect the two gills, port and starboard. Down, then up, both sides. Then pull off Bernard's head and drop it in the lakewater bucket you brought him up in. Ignore the blood; you're into this thing too deep to back out now. Next: the underbelly of the fish, so you set it on its back, again keeping a good grip on the tail. Near the tail end you will find a hole, which you will easily identify. Insert that knife into Bernard's anus and SLICE right up that underbelly.

You now proceed to unfold Bernard. Pull his guts out. (As I said, you're into this too deep to back out; the fish's blood is already on your hands, so its intestines are no great matter.) Drop the guts into the slop bucket, having first checked them to make sure that they are healthy, and that they do not presage the fall of the Res Publica. The worst part is now officially over.

Dorsal, anal, pectoral, and any other fins the fish may possess must now come off. As they all grow toward the arse end, it is best to cut at them from that direction. Dig them out as best you may, being careful not to puncture yourself on the spines. Into the slop bucket with them. The tail too, but hold off for a bit, because this will come in useful as a handle when removing the fins, and when scaling the fish, to which you now proceed. With the knife blade you scrape the scales off. The scales, like the fins, grow to the aft, so to be effective you must scrape forward. See how handy that tail is?

The fish, or Bernie as his friends called him, should by this time be quite thoroughly depersonalized, but not yet deboned. To this you now proceed. Truthfully, you can stop here, and freeze what remains of poor Bernard, if you are in a hurry to get to a Neil Innes concert, or possibly to attempt to catch and kill some of Bernard's friends. If not, then cut off Bernie's tail -- thwack! -- and move on to fileting him. This involves cutting into what used to be his back before you decapitated and eviscerated him, and using the knife to peel his erstwhile back and flanks away from his former ribcage. A twisting motion is most effective, carefully working the flesh away from the bones. Down one side, then the other. And there is his ribcage, poor lonely thing. It can be saved, along with the tail, and the head -- the head! Hello, Bernard! Poor Bernard! Why do you stare so? -- and boiled down for stock. Freeze them together, and freeze the filets in a separate bag.

This concludes the disassemblage of Bernard, or Bernie, the Largemouth Bass. Now just try and get the fish smell off your hands, you heartless murderer.