EMIRITI: DON'T ITCH THE TWITCH

By David Grossman

Sitting still is not something I do well. Daily external manifestations of my twitch include smoking, dipping, and drinking a good part of my life, just to give my hands something to do. I can roll “things” while driving a car because I get bored just driving. I constantly need a television, podcast, or music playing in the background because silence tends to set off my twitchy switch in a big way. I also tend to fill silences with thoughts voiced for the sole purpose of extending awkward silences. I’m a hit at dinner parties. From a fishing perspective, my involuntary soul spasms include the need to row or pole when the fishing is slow, or dicking around with beers, bowls, and poles when I’m not in control of whatever vessel I happen to be on. Don’t get me wrong—if the fishing is footloose and fancy free, I get as dialed as that laser Val Kilmer set off in the seminal ‘80s classic Real Genius (look it up, best popcorn prank ever filmed, also boobs). Over the years, this self-diagnosed ADHD has left me lacking on days when things are slow and the opportunities are scarce.

I’ve missed shots at Mother Poon for all kinds of reasons including literally having my dick in my hands. But I’ve missed more fish because of my twitchy nature than I have because of my upper middle class casting abilities. Standing on the front of a skiff forced to do nothing but stare into the abyss does not come naturally for me. I’ve become better at it, but far from what most experts would call serviceable. I still smoke analog cigarettes on the bow, but at least I have a lot more eye discipline when I do it now. I’ve learned to keep an open beer in my back pocket instead of on the deck so as to avoid the dreaded PBR rat’s nest when your bell gets rung. I feel like I’m well on my way to conquering the physical manifestations of my twitch. But beneath this steely adonislike exterior hides my vibrating brain, as if freshly Tased. It’s like I was suddenly blind, but could now bloodhound out a kilo of coke at the airport and take it all for myself. By shutting down my outer twitch, I had brought the crazy indoors. My internal monologue while on the bow hunting Megalopolis atlanticus is a study on topics far and wide, but all sharing the common theme of “no external worth at all.” dave's internal monologue

I think Braveheart would be a better movie if you replaced the main characters with Danny Devito and Rhea Pearlman. Did I forget my lighter?

What was that? Shit, I think that was one. I wonder if they smelled that?

Feet are weird.

Trout would be cooler if they were tarpon. Maybe I should tie some really big squirmy worms, like really big, with weed guards. That would be cool.

If Napoleon was a foot taller, would any of the Franco-Prussian War have been fought? Boobs.

They definitely smelled THAT.

What if reels were made for your feet?

I eventually snap back to the outside world by a fish I miss or the hydraulic drone of the motor being lowered signaling it’s time to go. I have friends who are able to tune all of this out, all yogi-like and in tune with their surroundings. I call these friends “enemies.” They catch more fish than me, they kill more animals than me, and they generally just piss me off. But I still love them, and one day hope to join them in the principles of Quiet Mind, Quiet body, Tarpon. Until then, I’m stuck with a kinda quiet body, and a fullblown rager in my head. More chemical experimentation may be needed if I’m ever to get over this hump.