"You're too self-critical, you're just gonna scrap it anyway, you never finish anything you start"
said the B.F. With that, he reached over my shoulder and, to my horror, hit 'publish'.
That, Gentle Reader, explains the rather abrupt ending to my last entry.

Further explanation is required regarding my absence from these pages for the better part of a year. I can tell you in one word: fishing.
This Spring I became hooked as they say. I became one of 'those people' for whom fishing is an obsession, an addiction, a neurotic compulsion. From the baking sun of high summer to torrential downpours, I persevered. I fought off all manner of bloodsucking fly. I ventured out at midnight when the catfish were lurking. I studied maps and bicycled for miles to new spots where I heard lucky anglers had caught 'monsters'. I scrimped and saved pennies for new boxes of worms. When I wasn't doing it I was thinking about it. Even in the studio I found my mind wandering back to the ole' fishin' hole at the end of my block. Once at the bait shop, I actually caught myself eyeing an 'I'd Rather Be Fishing' belt-buckle thinking,"I could rock this".
Alone and silent on a rickety dock off a bank edged with reeds and old trees. A mink gambols over the rocks. Above, ospreys and kingfishers circle and dive. A heron gracefully spears a frog. Mallard ducks are gentle and curious. Branches are alive with colour-wild canary yellow, cardinal red and jay blue. I exist in a place of poetry. There is no fishin' kitch here, no plastic singing bass or perch emblazoned suspenders. I ponder the rod in my hand, the line which intrinsically connects me to the possibility of a next meal. Nothing exists but this. I don't even crave a cigarette. The Ego has fallen away. That moment of zen so often aspired to has been achieved at last. Nothing has to happen. I don't even have to catch a fish. But I do, and thrill replaces quietude.
Yee-ha! We're eatin' tonight! I can even tell now by the way it moves whether it's a bass, perch or catfish. It feels like a cat fight. It jumps and sure enough I see the sickly yellow colour of it's belly. Recipe index cards shuffle through my mind. Do I even have any cajun spice mix left? He's wrestling with me-be careful he doesn't spit out the hook. Don't lower the tip of the rod. Don't reel too fast. Don't reel too slow. I land him, finally. As he flops around the dock at my feet I prepare for the next adrenalin pumping adventure-dislodging the hook while avoiding nasty spines that exude a mild electric shock. At last I get him safely on the stringer chain, where he joins two other's I've caught earlier. It's getting dark and cold. The fish was warm to the touch, which means the blood is leaving my hands. I'm really hungry. I have to go. But just one more fish...it'll only take 15 minutes...an even number makes for a better dinner for two anyway...just one more fish...I'm shaking-of course it's the just the cold. Just one more...
The season is over now. I think I got it out of my system; the novelty was bound to wear off sometime. Christmas is coming. I should have kept my predilection for angling to myself, for now I dread finding that plastic singing bass under the tree.

I have just been informed by the B.F. that in his family, ice fishing is a Christmas afternoon tradition...