Our Lives are Swiss

Routing through a pile of old college papers and transcripts, I stumbled upon a crumpled analysis of Emily Dickinson's poem Our Lives are Swiss. At the time I wrote the paper, I believed it to be the finest analysis of poetry I had ever written. Though I had forgotten the general direction of the paper, I remembered why I had considered it to be the magnum opus of my freshman year of college. From crowded auditoriums to sunlit campus gardens, I had been tortured by whimsical, absurd and politically charged interpretations of both poetry and literature. I saw a vast difference between what an author might have meant, and what the author's work could mean to an individual. Professors and teachers were generally faultless; their questions valid and thoughtful, but student answers frequently nettled. While studying the poetry of Emily Dickinson, her poem Our Lives are Swiss instantly flowered with deliberate purpose. I wrote in a fever, finishing my analysis several days before its due date. Rife with meaning so resonant, Dickinson's imagery could clearly be interpreted only one way.

Our lives are Swiss —
So still — so Cool —
Till some odd afternoon
The Alps neglect their Curtains
And we look farther on!
Italy stands the other side!
While like a guard between —
The solemn Alps —
The siren Alps
Forever intervene!

- And in 1997, I write (unedited):
Of the many poems I have read by Emily Dickenson, the poem that had the greatest influence on me was "Our Lives are Swiss." Having lived in Switzerland for two years, I see depth to this poem that may be overlooked by the casual reader. I will show that this poem symbolizes death through the imagery of the Alps and the Swiss culture.

Emily Dickenson begins this poem as follows: "Our Lives are Swiss, - So still, so cool,". The importance of the opening lines can be more fully understood when the nature of the Swiss culture and basic Swiss history is understood. Switzerland was originally formed by noble countrymen to protect themselves from invading Germanic tribes from the north. These men formed an agreement called "Der Bund," meaning the covenant. This covenant was an agreement to protect and support each other while remaining totally neutral to any outside affairs.

Over the centuries, many other "Cantons," or City States have taken upon themselves the covenant, and Switzerland has been in a constant state of peace since the eleventh century. Even now, Switzerland refuses to join the common market with the European Union, thus remaining neutral to all outside affairs. Swiss mentality is very similar to that of the country. Almost any changes brought within the country are resisted. Emily Dickenson uses the predictability of the Swiss in stating that our lives are Swiss, calm and cool.

The poem continues in the first stanza with a second image of great importance, this being the Alps. The Swiss Alps are the most prominent mountains in central Europe. Since the beginning of Switzerland, the Alps have been a natural barrier that have protected Switzerland from any invaders from the south. If the Alps were to "neglect their curtains" as the poem mentions, Italy, a foreign land, could be plainly seen to the south. This would expose the calm Swiss life to a foreign change that would affect every aspect of the Swiss existence.

In the second stanza, Emily adds importance to the imagery of the Alps by referring to the Alps as "The siren Alps." This reference comes from Greek mythology. Sirens are female creatures that sing a song that possesses any male that hears the melody. Those who hear are then compelled to go to the sirens and are held captive.

With all of these rich images in mind, it becomes easy to see the meaning of the poem. Picture a vertical line with a horizontal line intersecting the vertical line near the middle. The top half of the vertical line is red, and the bottom half is green. This is the geographical image of the complete poem. It would look something like a cross, quite possibly a crucifix. The red segment of the vertical line symbolizes the Swiss life, and the green segment symbolizes Italy, a foreign land. The intersecting line symbolizes the "siren Alps." If our lives were Swiss, we would calmly be walking this line drawing us to the "siren Alps." On "some odd afternoon, The Alps neglect their curtains..." and we pass into a foreign existence.

This poem clearly illustrates the process of death and the entrance into the unknown by the usage of the Swiss images of life, the Alps standing solidly between life and death, and the image of Italy, a foreign place of existence.
Even though I now recognize numerous glaring errors, I was pleased with the effort I made those years ago. Despite the aforementioned flaws, I still agree with my initial interpretation.

Stillness - Bo Bartlett

I gathered the essay, and in a fashion that belied an air of self-patronization, I read the words of a youthful, yet surprisingly astute version of myself to Beloved. Ever thoughtful, she paused before asking a single question.

"Do you really think Emily Dickinson had all that culture and history in mind when she penned the poem?"

For the first time since my "fevered" interpretation, I was confronted with a question that required honesty to answer. Reluctantly, I answered "Probably not."

Within moments of those two words leaving my lips, I had a disturbing mix of thoughts that included a kindhearted teacher's forgiveness, pained sighs of peers who have grown weary of slapdash, and wordy interpretations, and finally, the vision of Hannibal driving his herd of snorting and bellowing war elephants over the Alps into Italy.

Ms. Dickinson could have possibly known much of what my essay demands of her. She did study English, Latin, Geography and History prior to adulthood and her eventual seclusion. She was deeply impacted by the deaths of those near to her, and the theme is recurrent in her words in both prose and form.

Despite this, my perception of reality is projected strongly throughout the essay. Never once did I attempt to see the poem through the eyes of the poet. I chose comfort by seeing only what was obvious to me. Reality, in a sense, is so familiar, so still, - so cool...

On Liberty & Patriotism

I was blessed with the good fortune of childhood itinerancy. As our family moved, I grew to understand places and history to some extent. As I made my way through the Denver public school system, I learned both required and imagined details surrounding Alferd Packer, Wm. F. Cody, and the mysterious face on the bar room floor. These lessons were perfectly suited to boyhood, and the historical dates placed these fascinating events somwhere near my own time. After all, I owned and treasured currency minted as the West exploded. The world still held to a few living relics, precious and quickly fading into the two-dimensional pages of history.

The Great American Dream continued to call, and our family of eight vanished eastward. I reluctantly left the wild west appropriately in its grave, realizing probably for the first time that a cowboy is more than boots and buckle, just as ghost towns and abandoned mines are little more than headstones of dreams forgotten.

Geographically speaking, we landed on the banks of the appropriately named Trout Creek, a small stream that flows into the Schuylkill River, which then flows east into Philidelphia before turning sharply southward to meet the Delaware. On the road map, we were seperated from Valley Forge National Park by the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Red Coat Lane and Walker Road. I would guess we lived about a mile south of the park. I would walk there from time to time, but only when there was some sort of issue preventing travel by bicycle. I was living on the land that cradled the greatest country the world has ever seen. Our public school system understood that the outside world was a significant part of a quality education, so I finally learned the difference between the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. I visited Gettysburg, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and New York City all within a relatively short period of time. Archealogical digs were not uncommon at Valley Forge, and I routinely saw rusty flintlocks and misshapen lead slugs either discharged or discarded by some early patriot. Though the west will universally fly our fifty-star official flag, it was not uncommon to see the Betsy Ross circular (thirteen stars) or even the Bennington flag hoisted proud. Even more impressive were the huge Culpepper, Navy Jack and other "rattlesnake" flags hung conspicuously in the King of Prussia mall, also a bike ride away. These were my favorite.

Navy Jack, Hoisted on September 11, 2002 aboard USS Thomas S. Gates

It takes a teacher to learn about Old Glory, but the fool that misunderstands the meaning behind the Navy Jack is likely to be the same fool who knowingly picks up a rattlesnake twice. For the most part, nature is honest and straightforward. For this and for beauty, I was regularly chest-deep in bushes, water or mud. I had already found myself in two circumstances involving rattlesnakes by the time I saw those flags. In each case, the rattlesnake was peaceful, wishing harm to none. When threatened, a warning follows, which if unheeded, will result in a fight to the death. This was apparently a very effective message for colonists fighting an oppressive monarchy. One of the rattlesnake flags states "Join or Die." Any questions?

Time is a slipknot. We all moved back west and I have been in Utah since then. Though I still enjoy reading about the western frontier, I have come to regognize it as a tributary, not unlike Trout Creek is to the Schuylkill. Both continue to flow, though my line has not been wet in those waters for twenty years. I am confident that those waters have no memory, though I grow wistful as I remember the trout, bluegill and turtles who were once my friends. Though I may (and do) change, what was true then continues to be true today.

As a child, I beheld a chair owned by George Washington. On the back of the chair a sun had been carved on an artificial horizon. It was said that Ben Franklin had often wondered if the carving depicted a rising or setting sun. During a constitutional convention, Ben Franklin stated that he finally knew that the carving depicted a rising sun. He was obviously referencing the birth of a young nation whose existence was forged in the furnace of war, and fueled by a vision of freedom.

It's hard for me to resist a satire forged in the furnace of sub-prime stupidity, but I'll leave it at that, stating only that there have been several times where the sun has rested on the horizon of this great nation. In nearly every case, solidarity and purpose brought Americans together as a unified body. We did very difficult things, and many of our best sacrificed life and future for an ideal others enjoy today. As an individual unit of an almost unimaginably large whole, I think I will do what is right. The day dawn is breaking.

Something about consistent triple-digit drops in the market, rhetoric, record and a plummeting barometer makes me want to acknowledge the occasion. Free TV is forecasting a storm along the Wasatch, and I smell its breath on the wind. We’re gearing up for a rather terrifying Halloween.

As I sit here, sails furled and all hatches battened, I am wondering where my bailout equivalency check is. With giant monuments to stupidity and greed listing and foundering, this tiny red boat still floats strong – today anyway.

Meanwhile, people argue over records, votes, debates and winners. I know deep down inside that we will wind up with yet another Republicrat president regardless of outcome. We will continue our obsessive focus on the executive branch, just as our country cousins fuss over their queen. While we're out to lunch, justices will be permitted to legislate from the bench while Congress finds creative ways to spend ever-growing heaps of money on anything but existing debt.

And you, dear reader, might ask yourself if Sammy’s block finally cracked.

I shall address this directly primarily for my own benefit. The pressure is high. My medium-sized $X billion company (“my” denoting pride, not ownership) has canceled a company-wide conference call tomorrow, and sparse information has been trickling down slowly from heights unseen. Memos are arriving regarding expenses, and my boss is suddenly becoming a semi-permanent attachment as he redoubles his effort to coach, “add value,” and “drive the number.”

I am currently forecasting roughly thirty percent growth for my humble little four-state territory. Turning heads in the best of times, this forecast, while accurate, has earned me daily phone calls from various entities and yes, my omnipresent boss. In reality, things could be much, much worse.

Forecasts notwithstanding, I did the only sensible thing. I made one final run beneath a dying summer’s sun. Big Cottonwood’s water has grown icy as the nights stretch and the sun’s oblique reach is thwarted by stubborn crags that refuse to honor season. I was suddenly embraced by beauty ablaze as the best hour arrived unannounced. For only an instant, the falling sun ignited the narrow channel between water and overhanging trees. I cast a shadow over
riffle and stone stretching wide up the mountain, and eventually into space. As I beheld my giant misshapen likeness, I noticed recently fallen leaves, Aspen perhaps, churning in the current like great golden coins toward a troubled city below. And it ended. Only the great cliffs continued to burn as embers in the twilight, allowing me to reach my car before complete darkness. I drove homeward a bit faster than usual, focused on things of greater importance.

If you couldn't tell, that last picture with the huge fish was a lie.  I left my thumbs in the picture and tried to make my changes obvious to nearly everyone who took a close look.  I was going to say something about it earlier, but I have been too busy with vacation, work and other distractions.  I couldn't just leave it alone either, lest some lurker take me serious and send my mug all over cyberspace as an example of an authentic fool in the flesh.

The real fish was quite nice.  Here's the honest picture:

The days are getting noticeably shorter.  I used to fancy myself as a man justly appreciative of all seasons.  I have noticed over the last three years or so that the warm weather is gone before I am ready to let go.  While I am in the truth-telling mood, I'll just accept that I have great respect and admiration for some seasons and mere toleration for others.  For example, spring is a wasted word in these parts that best describes a nasty breakup between two redoubtable and contrasting forces whose passion and poor memory assure their eventual reconciliation - and subsequent parting, et cetera.

I had a friend named Randy in elementary school.  We were about the same size, and we both had mothers that fixed us up in collared shirts with horizontal yellow, navy and maroon stripes.  I met him on the first day of first grade.  By the end of that unforgettable day of firsts, Randy and I were best friends.  Had I been privy then to the knowledge that comes from thirty-three years of stupid mistakes, there would have been red lights, bells and sirens blowing in my head.  Alas, seven years is a special number for suckers (just read about Jacob in the bible), and by the end of that first week, Randy and I were bitter enemies.  The first grader's weekend healed Friday's ill will, and Randy and I started afresh, beginning a miserable cycle that would last five years, separated only by summer's amnesia.  I now laugh at the irony of my eager anticipation of Junior High.  Randumb was off to Euclid Jr., and Farter was off to Powell.  Knowing the hellish experience of Junior High, I rest at ease knowing he got his, I got mine, and pretty-much every seventh-grade adolescent male to creep along the locker-lined labyrinth of budding breasts, changing voices and bearded ninth-graders got theirs too.

That was probably the low point. Nevertheless, there were plenty of nasty surprises on the long twisty road from purgatory.

Eventually, I discovered the risk-free, careless world of the third person.  I had two friends who happened to be together as boyfriend and girlfriend.  I liked them both, and I was held in constant wonder at their star-crossed dilemmas of love, misunderstanding, misfortune and inevitable parting.  As no wall can hold the living tides, no force could prevent the eventual reuniting of sour luck and biological trickery.  One waltzes, the other foxtrots, and all can see clearly but the blind dancers, hobbling in sore-footed bliss.  I found it enjoyable and entertaining because I was the third person.  One night after another unfortunate parting of ways, I saw a big opportunity I might-should-have taken.  The opportunity, had I taken it, would have been enjoyable no doubt, but it would have moved me into either the first or second person in a deadly triangle of three dubious individuals all fighting for either the first or second person.  I did the right thing and went home kicking myself, occasionally stopping to peck at the dirt and cluck.  Looking back, I see it as nothing other than the age-old cornucopia of trouble, and one I was lucky enough to pass on.  Probably better to be chicken than be blowing the empty goat's horn in despair - though in reality both are table fare.

And so it is with the seasons.  Good night.

Memories of the Beaverhead

Just over a year ago, we hit the Mother's Day caddis hatch on the Beaverhead River.  Our timing was perfect and the rewards were commensurate:

This nice brown was one of many that could not resist the caddis.

The action was steady.  D's smile reflects the catch -  an honest two-hander!

The skill of deception and the delicate presentation cannot be underestimated.  It also helps to be the first one to hit the water.  

---Secrets---

"I have a (insert casual friend or fishing buddy here) who fishes this obscure spring creek in (state, province, kingdom, mountain range, etc.).  The place is full of huge, stupid trout.  Access is (usually dang near impossible), but the rewards are well worth the effort.  Best of all, nobody knows about it."

I have personally heard at least a dozen versions of the above story.  In response, I have borne gifts of beer, cash and false-hearted friendship.  I have set out adhering to detailed instructions only to find a wetland capable of supporting a toad or two, much less the arm-length trout promised.  I have perpetuated myth, gone shifty-eyed for effect, and flat-out lied.  Secrets, conspiracies and falsehoods are as much a part of fishing as the fish themselves.  Indeed, there are those who may not lie, but we mustn't forget the well-equipped angler who catches no fish.  They do exist, but the liars and stinky-handed bandits are in the majority, fooling trout (and each other) with double-dealing deceit rivaling the devil himself.

Dedicated to the "flower" button on my camera - and my favorite fishing buddy.

While fishing in Montana this spring, a thirty-year Madison River veteran told a story I have not yet borrowed until now.  One day of no particular importance, this guide's client lost a trout of respectable size on the Madison.  As one might expect, the trout made off with the guy's fly.  It happens every day.  On the Madison, it probably happens between a dozen and a hundred times a day depending on circumstances both known and mysterious.  The following day, the guide and his client fished the same stretch and managed to hook a fish in the same hole.  Once landed, it was clear that this fish was the same as yesterday's.  Though odd, these things do happen.  This instance was  exceptional because the client somehow managed to hook the eye of the fly the fish had taken the day before.  It's a mouthful, but read it carefully.  It's like winning the amazing story lottery without losing a few fingers in the process.

A few miles down the road all was silent except the hum of truck tires on the highway.  I thought of the story, and it occurred to me that it was so good, it was worth telling regardless of its substance or lack thereof.  I smiled to myself just as the other guide started telling some story about a guy running naked through a field.

This is not a Golden Trout because they don't get this big.

Like all the other line throwers out there, I have stories and secrets of my own.  The stories are spring runoff while the secrets are a whispering inlet buried beneath river's roar.  As others blow their own cover, their secrets evolve into stories about how the fishing was never that good anyway.  I'm content with  the mutual investment represented by the exchange of information between longtime river partners.  The fish matter less, and any outing is likely to be memorable.  In fact, that is probably what makes a secret worth telling, and at the same time, worth keeping.

Because my employment takes me all over Utah and Idaho, I have had opportunity to add obscure creeks and overlooked waterways to the book.  Some are dreadfully distant, others are simply too cozy for more than one angler at a time.  All have fish, and in my book, they all fish very well.  Even better, most of them were enjoyed in complete solitude.  

Though it looks more like a coven of witches preparing to pounce on Marvin Payne's unsuspecting head, it is a crude sketch of BLAD Creek.

I was blessed with fantastic fishing on Friday on a stream roughly between Boise, Los Angeles and Dallas.  Both caddis and sulphur-colored pale evening duns hatched in abundance. Trout rose eagerly, and I was pleased to find what appeared to be a self-sustaining Brown Trout population.  Just as the sun bid farewell to the east, a feisty brown took cover in submerged roots.  I lost my fly, and concluded the day in thoughtful satisfaction.

As I made my way back home, I listened to KSL's Friday the thirteenth "special."  The topic was conspiracies.  I thought of giant stupid trout swimming eternally in inaccessible northern waters and in the imaginations of those awaiting that seemingly inevitable rise.

The Busy Boxcar

We were rained out on Thursday, but Saturday went well.  The guys that ran the sound board did a decent job most of the time, and they managed to keep the volume to a reasonable level.  The Busy Bee is not much bigger than a double-wide, so volume could quickly become a problem.

Live at the Busy Bee

The Busy Bee does not pay particularly well.  We live off tips, and we live off even less than that when the tip pitcher is stolen.  The following band made a big deal about how we got ripped off, but I am not convinced we did.  In my mind's eye, I see a lonesome beer pitcher standing proud, full of intention and purpose.  Alas, through some unknown misunderstanding, the tips never come.  The smoky night creeps along beneath the glow of neon as an absentminded bartender grabs the pitcher and escorts it to the blinding washroom.  The band plays on, and of course, the missing tip pitcher goes unnoticed.

South Salt Lake's Finest

As a side note,  I don't accept money for tunes anyway.  No altruism here, it's all insurance.  If I so much as pick up a penny tossed in pity, Farmers won't cover the mando should the unthinkable occur.  This is one law of a select few I live to the letter.  I'll never forget how my agent laughed over the phone when I asked him about the lemonade-soaked laptop.  I was irritated with Farmers and S.B. at the time, but I took perverse comfort imagining the never-sleeping, perpetually sticky hands of destruction clawing their way towards S.B.'s future.

Sam Tsu Says: Plan your disasters to the last detail, or you'll someday stand in a puddle, pile of one thousand bricks, or ashes perhaps, laughing telephone in hand.

My beloved and I were the hot act at the care center on Monday night.  I sounded terrible and drifted in and out of the correct keys during my breaks.  I was also off-beat.  Oddly, I found the elderly quite intimidating.  I have played for them several times before, but it has never been like this.  No screaming, stomping, fighting, or anything.  Just a few muffled claps.  We payed homage to Flatt & Scruggs, Gillian Welch, The White Stripes, and The Cross-Eyed Child himself.  I left the care center far richer than the night I left the Busy Bee.  One elderly resident named Ralph remembered us from our last visit nearly a year ago.  He remembered fiddlin' Eddie, April's Bandits and everything.  To the Busy Bees, I am likely no more than a dream from the pint, and if that, I am the part that made all those unusual sounds with that funny little guitar.  Nevertheless, I am at peace.  I chose the off-beat the day I chose eight strings.

And now I choose to finish.  And that, my friends, is power.