"You anecdote about paintings of ships in the fog hung with me."
Great metaphor, Matt.
I once played golf with Ian Andrew. I previously had sampled many of his writings over the years and found them to be wondrously flawless, focused on a single topic, never straying from the appointed destination. To wit, I was a bit nervous about where the conversations of the round might end. I anticipated that my words, unlike my ever-straight drives, would miss the anecdotal fairways.
To my relief, Ian's conversation were all over the place. He started on one theme in the parking lot, something about changing his shoes and the importance of properly-balanced foot odor as precursor to a round of golf. On the range, where the winds whipped low and high like grickle grass, he segued into a treatise on cross-border politics and the demise of a cup of coffee at Tim Horton's. As we traversed the fairways of that wondrous tract (over which he has had complete control during a restoration) his drives and approaches were arrow-straight, just as his words went in contrary (sometimes contradictory) directions.
And then, just as he power-pushed a drive wide, wide, WIDE left on one of the holes and his game inexplicably left (get it?) him, the meaning and significance of his words began to clarify and I found myself retracing each sentence (which is difficult enough, without adding the Ontario dialectal variation) to unearth, unshell its nut.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Saltzman was no help.
I made this all up of course, other than the part about actually golfing with Ian. I enjoy his posts, as well-thought as mine are helter-skelter. Perhaps we bring balance to this universe.