My daughter and I have a running joke about Zombies and the coming Zombie Apocalypse.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when she gave me a Christmas gift.
The illustrations remind me of how I used to paint and draw when I abruptly stopped doing both about 25 years ago. Loose, sloppy, paint splattered, only I never got so gory.
I like it.
Each month has a journal entry, the field notes of one Dr. Robert Twombly, whoever that is.
The month of June caught my eye. There was a zombie fisherman, standing in the water, his fishing pole leaning on a branch. A crow intently watching him.
Half reconnaissance and half gathering wood I left the house today. At a good distance I saw a zombie down by the water in fishing gear, just standing there, swaying and staring. Out over the water. Do they think? Then it ripped off part of it's own arm and gnawed on it like it was beef jerky.
I can relate to that.
I've spent numerous days fishing where observation is key. It's not unusual to stand and stare and sway a bit. Then you fish. And fish some more. And no matter what you do and throw in the water, nothing bites. Not a tap.
No big deal. I'm out there for the beauty of my surroundings. To take in the scenery and become one with all that nature has to offer.
Or so I try to convince myself.
In reality, I want to chew off my own arm, worthless thing that it is. Can't cast worth a damn with it on most days anyways. There ain't no fish in this water even if I could cast with it.
Yes, the zombie makes a good point. I suddenly feel a slight twinge of sympathy for his circumstances, an understanding of his frustration.
For one brief moment, we are brothers in fishing.