tim BuChanaN

Somethin' Close to Nothin'

 

I'm sittin' down here, at the stripper pit and I'm doin' somethin' close to nothin'.Got a couple of lines out, fishin' for and wind and water still,holdin' bluegill, catfish, bass and hook hang up grass and somethin' close to nothin'.There ain't nothin' better than an old minin' pit to fish out of, bout as deep as the wounds of Christ, more crevices and folds than these Warrick County hill rolls and landscape hopes, a labyrinth of limestone dens, for livin' things to hide and whisper in, tastin' somethin' close to freedom. Far from the state water holes, overfished, shallow as mosquito eye mist, supposedly stocked, yet teaming with somethin' close to nothin'. Plus ya gotta buy a license, to hang yer hook in hopes for nothin' and I did once buy a license when I was livin' in Tennessee, for $19 a year, thinkin', "jeeze luweeze! I better catch $19 in fish this year". As much as I could, I went, pullin' up minnows if I pulled up anything at all, never could relax and fell way short of my $19 in fish flesh. Thus vowing never to pay for anything of God's again that the government was tryin' to rent out. So, for my fine healthy one big muscle coal pit flipin' fish, I pay somethin' under nothin'.And down here at the pit of my silent friend James, I gots my little cane pole along with my reels, just dropped it in and rammed the holdin' end into the mud, let it sit and bend like a weeping cane willow and check it every once and a while.

 

 

One of my fishin' buddies down in Tennessee who was from Chickasaw County, Mississippi, laughed at me when he saw me pull out my cane pole from my little Datsun's hatch. So I had to stop his little Mississippi shy chucklin' when I told him bout one of the earliest times I can remember my Daddy takin' me fishin' to a local pit. I had my little cane pole, since I was little of course, and Dad had his fancy reels and flashy lures. And after about the 23rd fish I pulled in to his one, my Dad said reachin' for my cane pole and tossin' his reel to the side, "Here, let me see that thing". And our bellys that night were somethin' close to bustin'. These are some of my fondest's memories of me and my father when I was young, goin' fishin' and not bringin' moma or my sisters along. I could be my daddy's only child for a few hours and it seemed he eased his guard and stiffness down and said funny things he wouldn't ordinarily say, stuff moma wouldn'ta approved of and stuff my sisters would've repeated. The only kinda sour trip was when before we left to go, mom was fryin' chicken and I was tryin' to steal a piece out of the pan. Mother or somebody came inta the kitchen, causin' me to fling the chicken back into the pan and a bunch of burnin' grease got splashed inta my hair. My scalp was burned some but I wouldn't tell no one since that would only have me hurtin' on both ends. And it was that night when me and dad was sleepin' in his utility truck at the lake that my dad said in the midst of heavy sniffin', "What's that smellin' like chicken?". Of course I had to confess and after Daddy felt the grease in my hair, he made me stick my head in the lake until all the grease was somethin' close to not stinkin'.And it's somethin' close to Christ's second greatest commandment to take somebody fishin'. I took my wife not a month after bein' married and she ended up catchin' more fish than me on the first trip and reported it promptly to my fishin' mentor Grandpa Buchanan, that very night. He welcomed her to the family. And it was somethin' close to sweet to watch my little city soul friend Kristen fish for the first time. Her on the Harpeth of Tennessee, gettin' the hang of castin' and gettin' unhung and then cursin' the small fish for silently nibblin' of the worm without her knowin'. It's like watchin' somethin' close to bein' born again. I'm digin' the silence and peace of the pit, the solitude specially since evenin' is creepin'.

 

Though I love just about all people and romp and weave in the tales and discourse of the mouth, it's somethin' sometimes to hear somethin' close to nothin'.My grandpa Buchanan would have it no other way. You see, again when I was very little, Robert C. would take me to all kinds of farm land private ponds and would always say that I shouldn't talk cause that'd scare the fish away. I took that as comin' from the mouth of a field and stream sage and would be so quiet, swallowin' to avoid coughin' and when goin' fishin' with other friends and family, be the keeper of the quiet, noddin' to people's yakin' til they got the hint. But one day very so recently, me and grandfather were up in Lynnville at Brother Reed's little lake doin' a little fishin' and Robert C was talkin' and laughin', close to never breathin'. I brought up what used to be his cardinal rule and asked 'em what was up with this? To which he slowly "hmmm"ed and said, "I did tell ya that, didn't I? Think about it neighbor". I can only laugh at the tired old man and wordy little kid of a few years ago. And the best thing bout retirin' for grandpa is at age 65, the federal government says, "Ok, you don't hafta buy a fishin' license now. Yer old, you've earned it, so fish for free here in yer last few years".

Which gets me thinkin' bout my $19 and am gettin' close to cranky. Which reminds me of the most important lesson I ended up a learnin' from my $19 fish quest. I was so obsessed with catchin' fish, I'd have three or four lines in the water at once, as to increase my chances you see. I'd have a nightcrawler on a floater for bluegill, crickets or chicken livers on my bottom lines for catfish and then be constantly castin' and reelin' some kind of spinner or rooster tail for bass, trout or whatever else. And I found myself doin' somethin' close to workin'. Sometime after I had given this practice up, me and Robert C. were doin' some fishin' in an almost sump like pond and I noticed my grandpa was messin' with about four or five lines, hurrin' up and down the bank to check on each line, constantly workin' on untanglin' and refittin' the puzzles that fallin' apart poles can present and lookin' generally flustered. I told him my story and startin' lecturin' bout missin' the whole point of fishin', though I didn't really know if he'd really thought I had anything really to say about the art he'd been doin' before I was even really a glimmer in my daddy's eye. But he called from back home in Indiana bout a month after the incident and reported, "I tell ya, I thought about what ya said and so for the last few weeks I've only been takin' two poles, been sittin' down while I'm there and I've never caught so many fish in all my seventy somethin' years. Just thought you might want've heard that." The honor my grandpa had bestowed on me was one of those things that make the air taste somethin' close to sweet.

But now here at this fishin' hole, the night quilt has fallen and is settlin' and it smoothers my anger and excitement, and quiets me. I continue to fish, though I see not where I cast my lines, the sounds found splash tells me enough and I can no longer see my skin or blood of nations within, and this is the wisdom of night, what our eyes should see, reputation and rumor free, myself I want too much to be some people, to have an unearned epic, in the chiseled and vandalized cracks in my face, for I know the blood rivers of the Scotch, Irish, Cherokee, German and French flows into the smoke and ash of my wind, and was made one and raised by the love between a southerner and a midwesterner, and by soil and streams am an American, and by faith I am the promised dust of Abraham, though in this moment I am a flash of breath on the face of the water and in the night I'm somethin' close to nothin'. This is my place, I am bloody dust, an earth and clay house flickerin', heated by a hearth of spirit, my night whistlin' is a far off lightning bug cough, in harmony and in haunting in this holler, my eyes studyin' on the sky quilt, heaven's yonder shinin' through the peerin' holes, gives me hints and winks on my final home, ownin' that all I've known, there, will be as somethin' close to nothin'.

tim buchanan

two poems

 

Pixie Folk in the Trees

Half deaf old man

bony legs puppet his wrinkled pants

shuffles down the salt scarred sidewalk

pauses in this dusk walk

and says, "I believe I hear mandolins in the trees!"

His chest jumps up in a chuckle

his plaid shirt rises with his shoulder shrug

says, "Pixies I reckon"

and disappears on with the setting sun.

Bashful back behind the bushes

slouchin' back in my lawnchair

I make melodies with my mandolin

accidentally renewing belief

and blame for things unexplained

of pixie folk in the trees.

Brushin' the Blossoms on the Porch

Staring at pebbles and staples in the carpet

my boots worn where I place my weight

the armies of overhead projectors

showin' the patterns our human wanderin' behaviors

focus group scripture blurred on the wall

paper clip brass bands blaring

that among post-it note barrel bureaucrats

common sense ain't too common

all of this seemingly more transparent than their

transparencies behind it all my pining to be home

my sock feet danglin' from the rockin' chair brushin'

the blossoms on the porch

At the Wedding of the Free

(lettin' my burdens fall away from me)

I was there starin' sad eyed at the wedding of the free

sitting on a folding chair with my weathered bride of three

years her veil floating behind her head

it's tatters ticklin' her soft neck flesh we still in

love but beat from our bending backwards backs considering

letting go to vertebrae twig snaps bowing backwards to

parental hurricanes a daughter leaves her father and mother

to become one with her husband but the soul tremblin' and

fear cowerin' are still triggered with in earshot

But watchin' the free bride and groom already being

given respect for their private joys is enough to give the

raped smudges of virginity for it is true while the one

fleshed souls already down the betrothed road

watch and listen to the fresh sounds of vows and squeaks of

flesh and rings

and by sentiments, teary eyed sniffs and hand squeezes

we are married again and so I am left to rejoice with the

wedding of the free and at the raising of the veil

let my burdens fall away from me.

 

 

 

for further Tim Buchanan check out the Tombstone Trailerpark releases and the truetunes.com website which has some great articles by Tim including one on folk artist Howard Finster.Also check out 'Luke' magazine which has a fine lengthy piece on the Trailerpark in last issue - see links page.