a lovely enchanting tale / thank you for that / i have found magic (surprisingly) in my suburban lot in america / it never goes away it just hides where the careless eye can't see it https://rohn.substack.com/p/the-dweebil-at-the-center-of-the
Hi Holly. Thanks for taking a peek into my off-center world. And you always moving along, under the radar, appearing unexpectedly when and where you choose. A masterclass in camouflage :-)
I've thought about this tale since it announced itself a week ago. And now I have read it for a third time, which isn't my normal, but I find no reason to reject such practice in this case. Each time it changes, emphasizing something different, authoring smiles in different places and revealing a few more of its secrets. Your secrets. And the girl's. And possibly those of the good people, though I dare not ask such questions out loud. Fish poacher and necromancer, and interpreter of treacled Gaelic. I know of no-one else who can claim such complimentary talents or wield them half as poetically. So I feel certain that there have been at least two, and probably even more times in your whole wicked life that you have proven yourself one of the good people. A fella can sense these things, you know ...sometimes without even looking, or at best, out the hazy, soft corner of e's downcast eye.
Ach, heavens. Here I am at last, tattered and bedraggled and empty-handed. I’ve been crawling behind you, keeping out of sight while you gain the grudging acceptance of Bluebirds and the comforting contempt of Owls. It is hard to keep up, clumsy and thorn-racked, hoping for a glimpse of how it is done. How the alloy of humility and ecstasy is smelted and forged. There have been some dark days lately. But I trudge along, your lantern somewhere ahead in the undergrowth, better than a compass. Bless you.
Your note is a kindness my friend, that encourages me to sit a spell upon some trailside boulder looking out over the land and hoping for the faintest glimpse of movement, revealing some thoughtful, observant presence in the dead ground below who just tossed a pebble my direction to let me know, while not quite knowing he was here. A tip of my cap in your direction with downcast eyes and an amused grin. I've encountered your sort before... though not for some time.
Sweet lord this is gorgeous. Looking down at my toes curled into humus, I see/hear/feel your voice and confirm, yes, David Knowles is one of the good people.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the value of porosity, of soft boundaries. How much the self tries to define something more tangible but we are really walking around with gossamer borders. And where those borders meet, a whole universe of intelligence that is neither me, nor you. But something entirely new.
Dear Kimberly. Yes, maybe that is the secret of invisibility - not to be separate in the first place. Your gossamer borders become so transfusive that nobody can tell where one begins and another ends. We can but try :-)
You were so very welcomed on my hike this morning. Just as I was descending down a steep trail, I stopped to identify a plant with my iPhone in hand (Valerian, if you’re wondering), you arrived at the perfect moment. Synchronicity is always an unplanned treasure. It was a pleasure to listen to your voice carry ‘The Invisible Man’, with the aid of a breeze, weaving through tall Birch and ancient Pine. Wading through freshly unfurled ferns, taller than me, I stopped to hop up on top of a boulder in the forest shadows to ponder “the quiet man”. “His Gaelic was a treacle of sticky richness, almost impossible to follow as it flowed like cooling lava around the rocky outcrops and back-country scree paths of his tiny kingdom.” With a sea of green fronds rhythmically waving, I stared off into the distance imagining “the waller’s kingdom”. How intoxicating it is to be consumed by glorious writing. I’m sighing and I’m thinking—let it all “dance on the edge of” my eye. Yesterday I had my fly rod in hand, it’s been a long while. I surrendered to love. Thank-you, David!
Hi Lor. I don’t know how you are with a fly rod these days. I still carry one from time to time but it is as much for the feel of the cork in my hand and the balance and the sinewy wriggle of the rod itself. Sometime I ‘go fishing’ but never put a fly on the water. The other morning I saw an absolutely magnificent brown trout in the river below our house and watched him or her for half an hour. I imagined the strength and dash of it once hooked. And shuddered in horror at that actually coming to pass. It isn’t that I have decided never to kill and eat a fish again in my life. But the gods of the clouds and the river would have to invite me to do it.
I know what you mean, David. It is one of the reasons I have not held my fly rod in a long time. Usually I am either walking along the rocks that hold the river to its course, or standing mid-stream mostly to explore the water and see what kind of treasures it might reveal. Kind of like an outdoor museum—as the beholder, I stare in awe, but leave the art to the river. I was hoping to catch dinner, but like you, sometimes watching the majesty of the fish becomes an art in itself. I do love the rhythm of fly fishing and standing silently waiting for a fish to rise. Maybe I’ve always wanted to be a female version of Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. I added this nice little excerpt from the book, there are some great metaphors you might enjoy. Absolutely no one writes about religion as it pertains to fly fishing (who would have thought) the way Norman Maclean does.
Yes, Lor. It gives me the creeps sometimes how focused on status and glitzy kit the world of fly-fishing can be. I used to get the odd afternoon on the Spey (poshest of the posh Scottish rivers) when the 'rods' had tired of patronising the gillies and had gone off to annoy the local restaurant owners. They never seemed to understand that it was all a scared ceremony and that the fisherperson was just a chalice bearer without importance in the proceedings. Sigh :-)
Oh, I loved all of this, every syllable, every vision and secret of the 'dead ground' and the rivers running 'toward becoming nothing at all.' I love the otherworld of fish and can watch for hours and then remember to fish awhile too. You are 'a good people,' through and through, not just at the edge of a girl child's eye. I'm trusting this lovely homage to haunt me all day.
Hello again, Leslie. Thanks for coming back for some more. You did make me smile - I used to fish rather energetically when I was young but now, like you, I generally just wander around along the bank with a rod in hand and it is a rare thing for me to actually put a fly on the water. I say, ‘I’m going fishing’ but really I am out there to be fished :-)
I appreciate your courtesy toward the tender, tiny co- inhabitants of this lusty lush earth we trod. Good manners translate across interspecies. I have a similar relationship with my fellow neighbor-creatures along the edge and estuary of a tropical jungle. Thank you for a lovely trek with you. May the invisible good continue to thrive in all terrains.
Dear Amaranth. The ‘edge and estuary’ - now there’s an image and a lovely chime. There is a lot of talk about complex relationships and esoteric systems - but I think you have it all there in ‘good manners’ :-)
I'm reading this in the Dublin airport, eyes brimming, about to return home to Canada, from 3 weeks in Ireland. Two weeks with my family, and an unplanned but urgent need to be alone in Donegal to walk the land and write. Your words carry my body into the sweet experience of picking my way through braken, soaking my shoes, and ending up seemingly nowhere before rural gates where I find ancient and sacred sites. Leaving this land is invariably an experience of being wrenched away, long before I understood how the lands of our ancestors call us home; our ancient DNA carries the knowing. Your words help me hear and carry much of the magic and wisdom I experienced in Donegal. Thank you.
Thanks again, David, for a brief trip with you, down your memory lane. As a visual thinker, it places me in places I will never see. But, through your words and my inner eye get to experience. Please continue to allow us, across the oceans, the visits to your Hollow there on the emerald isles.
Hi David. I wonder sometimes if we couldn’t all go down into our own little dingly dells and push on through to emerge into each other’s worlds via hidden gaps in the hedge or tunnels in the rock. That would be a proper writerly trick :-)
These words are those hidden gaps and tunnels, no? A trick performed by you every time you write. You send the vehicle, we board, traveling with you through your mind's eye and poets heart to places that could only be revealed by you, the conductor. And such a joyous ride it is. Thanks, David.
I hope to catch glimpses of the enchanted from the corners of my eye, they are there just on the edges of sight as I gratefully read and sigh and breathe in and out this story of the almost invisible. Thank you David. It’s good to read your words x
a lovely enchanting tale / thank you for that / i have found magic (surprisingly) in my suburban lot in america / it never goes away it just hides where the careless eye can't see it https://rohn.substack.com/p/the-dweebil-at-the-center-of-the
Enchanting <3
Thanks for listening, Luci :-)
Be still my heart…
Hi Karen. Thanks for being there as I do my best to grasp at the misty mysteries :-)
Love, love, love. How exquisite this invisible magic.
Hi Holly. Thanks for taking a peek into my off-center world. And you always moving along, under the radar, appearing unexpectedly when and where you choose. A masterclass in camouflage :-)
Oh, man, you did it again. You are a wizard with words! This American woman loves it!
Hi Lisa. Thanks for coming along, down the twists and turns of my joy in the world. You must wonder where on earth we’ll be going next ;-)
Magical, David. Simply magical. I closed my eyes and was with you.
Thank you! You've added much to my day!
Lovely. Thanks for coming along :-)
I've thought about this tale since it announced itself a week ago. And now I have read it for a third time, which isn't my normal, but I find no reason to reject such practice in this case. Each time it changes, emphasizing something different, authoring smiles in different places and revealing a few more of its secrets. Your secrets. And the girl's. And possibly those of the good people, though I dare not ask such questions out loud. Fish poacher and necromancer, and interpreter of treacled Gaelic. I know of no-one else who can claim such complimentary talents or wield them half as poetically. So I feel certain that there have been at least two, and probably even more times in your whole wicked life that you have proven yourself one of the good people. A fella can sense these things, you know ...sometimes without even looking, or at best, out the hazy, soft corner of e's downcast eye.
Ach, heavens. Here I am at last, tattered and bedraggled and empty-handed. I’ve been crawling behind you, keeping out of sight while you gain the grudging acceptance of Bluebirds and the comforting contempt of Owls. It is hard to keep up, clumsy and thorn-racked, hoping for a glimpse of how it is done. How the alloy of humility and ecstasy is smelted and forged. There have been some dark days lately. But I trudge along, your lantern somewhere ahead in the undergrowth, better than a compass. Bless you.
Your note is a kindness my friend, that encourages me to sit a spell upon some trailside boulder looking out over the land and hoping for the faintest glimpse of movement, revealing some thoughtful, observant presence in the dead ground below who just tossed a pebble my direction to let me know, while not quite knowing he was here. A tip of my cap in your direction with downcast eyes and an amused grin. I've encountered your sort before... though not for some time.
Sweet lord this is gorgeous. Looking down at my toes curled into humus, I see/hear/feel your voice and confirm, yes, David Knowles is one of the good people.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the value of porosity, of soft boundaries. How much the self tries to define something more tangible but we are really walking around with gossamer borders. And where those borders meet, a whole universe of intelligence that is neither me, nor you. But something entirely new.
Dear Kimberly. Yes, maybe that is the secret of invisibility - not to be separate in the first place. Your gossamer borders become so transfusive that nobody can tell where one begins and another ends. We can but try :-)
You were so very welcomed on my hike this morning. Just as I was descending down a steep trail, I stopped to identify a plant with my iPhone in hand (Valerian, if you’re wondering), you arrived at the perfect moment. Synchronicity is always an unplanned treasure. It was a pleasure to listen to your voice carry ‘The Invisible Man’, with the aid of a breeze, weaving through tall Birch and ancient Pine. Wading through freshly unfurled ferns, taller than me, I stopped to hop up on top of a boulder in the forest shadows to ponder “the quiet man”. “His Gaelic was a treacle of sticky richness, almost impossible to follow as it flowed like cooling lava around the rocky outcrops and back-country scree paths of his tiny kingdom.” With a sea of green fronds rhythmically waving, I stared off into the distance imagining “the waller’s kingdom”. How intoxicating it is to be consumed by glorious writing. I’m sighing and I’m thinking—let it all “dance on the edge of” my eye. Yesterday I had my fly rod in hand, it’s been a long while. I surrendered to love. Thank-you, David!
Hi Lor. I don’t know how you are with a fly rod these days. I still carry one from time to time but it is as much for the feel of the cork in my hand and the balance and the sinewy wriggle of the rod itself. Sometime I ‘go fishing’ but never put a fly on the water. The other morning I saw an absolutely magnificent brown trout in the river below our house and watched him or her for half an hour. I imagined the strength and dash of it once hooked. And shuddered in horror at that actually coming to pass. It isn’t that I have decided never to kill and eat a fish again in my life. But the gods of the clouds and the river would have to invite me to do it.
I know what you mean, David. It is one of the reasons I have not held my fly rod in a long time. Usually I am either walking along the rocks that hold the river to its course, or standing mid-stream mostly to explore the water and see what kind of treasures it might reveal. Kind of like an outdoor museum—as the beholder, I stare in awe, but leave the art to the river. I was hoping to catch dinner, but like you, sometimes watching the majesty of the fish becomes an art in itself. I do love the rhythm of fly fishing and standing silently waiting for a fish to rise. Maybe I’ve always wanted to be a female version of Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. I added this nice little excerpt from the book, there are some great metaphors you might enjoy. Absolutely no one writes about religion as it pertains to fly fishing (who would have thought) the way Norman Maclean does.
Enjoy!
https://press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/500667.html
Yes, Lor. It gives me the creeps sometimes how focused on status and glitzy kit the world of fly-fishing can be. I used to get the odd afternoon on the Spey (poshest of the posh Scottish rivers) when the 'rods' had tired of patronising the gillies and had gone off to annoy the local restaurant owners. They never seemed to understand that it was all a scared ceremony and that the fisherperson was just a chalice bearer without importance in the proceedings. Sigh :-)
Oh, I loved all of this, every syllable, every vision and secret of the 'dead ground' and the rivers running 'toward becoming nothing at all.' I love the otherworld of fish and can watch for hours and then remember to fish awhile too. You are 'a good people,' through and through, not just at the edge of a girl child's eye. I'm trusting this lovely homage to haunt me all day.
Hello again, Leslie. Thanks for coming back for some more. You did make me smile - I used to fish rather energetically when I was young but now, like you, I generally just wander around along the bank with a rod in hand and it is a rare thing for me to actually put a fly on the water. I say, ‘I’m going fishing’ but really I am out there to be fished :-)
I appreciate your courtesy toward the tender, tiny co- inhabitants of this lusty lush earth we trod. Good manners translate across interspecies. I have a similar relationship with my fellow neighbor-creatures along the edge and estuary of a tropical jungle. Thank you for a lovely trek with you. May the invisible good continue to thrive in all terrains.
Dear Amaranth. The ‘edge and estuary’ - now there’s an image and a lovely chime. There is a lot of talk about complex relationships and esoteric systems - but I think you have it all there in ‘good manners’ :-)
Words that are more than that... They carry me along. Your writing ability astounds me.
Thanks. What a lovely image, Gail. Words and sentences carrying you along like a troop of worker ants … :-)
Thank you again, David. I will never think of what dances at the edge of my sight the same way again.
Hi Carri. Thanks for coming back. Enjoy your sixth sense :-)
I'm reading this in the Dublin airport, eyes brimming, about to return home to Canada, from 3 weeks in Ireland. Two weeks with my family, and an unplanned but urgent need to be alone in Donegal to walk the land and write. Your words carry my body into the sweet experience of picking my way through braken, soaking my shoes, and ending up seemingly nowhere before rural gates where I find ancient and sacred sites. Leaving this land is invariably an experience of being wrenched away, long before I understood how the lands of our ancestors call us home; our ancient DNA carries the knowing. Your words help me hear and carry much of the magic and wisdom I experienced in Donegal. Thank you.
Hi Jessica. Thank you for your kind words and for sharing your connection with the beautiful land out there in the north-west :-)
Thanks again, David, for a brief trip with you, down your memory lane. As a visual thinker, it places me in places I will never see. But, through your words and my inner eye get to experience. Please continue to allow us, across the oceans, the visits to your Hollow there on the emerald isles.
A fellow David
Hi David. I wonder sometimes if we couldn’t all go down into our own little dingly dells and push on through to emerge into each other’s worlds via hidden gaps in the hedge or tunnels in the rock. That would be a proper writerly trick :-)
These words are those hidden gaps and tunnels, no? A trick performed by you every time you write. You send the vehicle, we board, traveling with you through your mind's eye and poets heart to places that could only be revealed by you, the conductor. And such a joyous ride it is. Thanks, David.
I hope to catch glimpses of the enchanted from the corners of my eye, they are there just on the edges of sight as I gratefully read and sigh and breathe in and out this story of the almost invisible. Thank you David. It’s good to read your words x
Ha! Emily, I have always thought that you must be one of the people most surrounded by enchantment. It oozes out of all your art and your craft :-)
Thank you David x