Caught under a wall

I have a bone to pick tonight. Well, perhaps it’s more of a problem to diagnose, or maybe just a confession to make - but before we get to all of that, let me share with you the Tale of the Concrete Fisherman.

Once upon a time, there lived a well meaning chap who wanted to do some fishing. Having no block and tackle, he looked for and found a similar tool, hitched it up on his back, and began watching toward the stream, determinedly but awkwardly. When he found a spot that he liked, the fisherman swayed from side to side for a moment and then suddenly cast his fishing device straight into the river. For the tool he had chosen to catch fish with was a concrete wall.

After thus setting his fabulous-fish-catching-environment, the poor dolt waited for some water to build up, and crawled out onto the wall (which had remarkably fallen upright) in order to secure his prizes. There was a silvery flash below him – a fish! [Note: Please refrain from any vulgar exclamations of “to catch a fish/ so juicy swEEET!” until the narrative is complete –Ed.]

The foolish Fisherman stood in the middle of the river with his heels in the running water, batting at the fish which had collected below him. He let his hand first follow one and then another, teetering on the wall in his eagerness to grasp something. Soon, however, the pull of the whole stream was too much for him and he was swept back out into the current, still fitfully snatching at the fishes around him…

*********

Charming my dear, you’re probably thinking, But how on earth this relates to any nonsense under the sun is beyond me!

I guess that this story expresses how I’ve felt lately – just swept under the wave sometimes. Call it the ending of my freshman honeymoon period, call it a tiny spark of concerned responsibility, call it an irregular chocolate/coffee cycle (hey I’m working on that one), but in the midst of great classes and plenty of time to work I find myself unhappily loafing about like … well like a guy floating gently towards the water fall. Where do I like to put the blame? On the computer, of course.

With the advent of three writing classes this semester (Comp, Lit, and Journalism), I’ve spent a lot of time on the computer. But somewhere, among the necessary research, I found that I was loosing major chucks of time in black holes like “I’m-scoping-out-the- background-info-real-quick” or “That-extra-source-is-just-around -the-corner.” In the midst of wandering from link to link, bedtime would crop up and I would find that two and a half hours had disappeared into the fog.

The problem (for me) doesn’t stem from a rabid desire to defy sanity, or see how many web cookies I can munch on. The very allure of surfing is its usefulness. And at first, the endless possibilities of a search engine spread a cheerful glow over all my work. Did I need to profile a new professor in the Art Department? Ah ha! Here was a list from his old Alma Mater of all the art pieces he’d ever exhibited! Oh Ho! Here was another site that had all of the courses he taught at his last university! And best of all was that juice page of links which handed me all of the web sites which related to my thesis.

Riiiight.

And so, as I said before, I fell off the deep-end of search engines and resurfaced with some big holes in my day, day after day after day. That is why my complaint against being a Google writer came out in a story. If you stop and think about it, hoping to find a choice feast for your professor from one search word is a bit like throwing a wall into the creek for some fishes. It’s one thing to hope that a specific, authoritative web page will slosh up against your net; it’s another thing to plunge into a current of links that will teach you the meaning of “relevant” through the eyes of 54 different webmasters. The internet and its search options for a few occasions – yes. Search engines as the quick answer for all literary research – an unhappy no.

When I came out of the twilight zone I was greeted by Late Evening on Planet Earth, and believe me it was not a happy landing. As I wailed to my Mater one night, “Two hours in the middle of every day! Poof!! Gone!!” In the wordage of someone who to spent all of his time lifting rocks and mentoring padawans – Distressed I was.

So where does my story end, the bottom of the lake? Well, with all this water still in my eyes, I can't really say. But, if you’ve stuck with me this far, you deserve to have some concessions. I admit that you, the readed, might have gotten this revelation long ago. You may be thinking that anyone who imagines that Google and spell checker are the keys to happiness deserves to go over a waterfall or something. My answer is that redemption comes to the dolts of the world as well and I’m a work in progress. Since the evening of that outburst to my Mom, I’ve been aware of my tendency. Not totally victorious, but aware. I'm beginning to see that not only are there other ways to fish for thoughts, but better ways to discipline one's life. My hope is that tomorow I will find a footing or get some tackle and begin to learn to pull the perfect catch.