But like the pied piper, the strings snaked coils around me and sounds followed me home. My ears, my mind...were (and are) never truly silent.
This was long ago. Now, the sounds following me are of waters -- my soul being haled.
And, as I was once given scales, arpeggios, and Bach suites to learn to perfection, I am now handed a plastic bag containing a book, "Clouser's Flies," some hooks, and some dumbbell-eyes.
Study the master, I'm told.
And so I do.
I put up my growing-out hair, awkwardly thick, and flick on the lonely light above my desk -- the light, who looks down on everything I do; but contrary to that person you can never please, my light -- my light looks down with approval -- not always with what or how I am doing something, but for why I am doing it. Ah! Brilliant, that color marabou....I swear, he flickers encouragement. My dog Banjo sees it too. Ask him. His eyes always have answers. These eyes -- they are of one who sees all, but does not speak. Milky golden-flecked Magic 8 balls of wisdom, melting species and language into hot chocolate. Sip slowly. Sometimes wisdom is too hot - hard to digest - at least right away.
I tie on, in ambient silence.
Streamers -- with flattery in imitation; yet proudly, solely, my own -- flash, marabou, fox-hair, mink. And by the end of the night I am covered with creative refuse, from trying to make something beautiful out of fur and feather. Trying tie my way out...