Dreams of Fish

by Mark Thomas

My obsession with fish has become pathological.

Driving in my car, I think every curve in the road must follow the contour of a trout stream and every flashing bit of industrial metal must be a waterfall. It doesn’t matter how often I am disappointed by geography. I assume fish are hiding nearby and will appear if I remain vigilant. The next urban ditch or sluiceway will teem with spawning salmon. Whitefish, expelled from sewers after a heavy rain, will slither across flooded pavement. Perch will flit through blue depressions in lush green lawns.

During work meetings, I make fish-shaped doodles in the margins of important memos and watch the presenters’ mouths open and close without hearing words.

At night, I dream of fishing and when I catch one, the creature judges me with black-marble philosopher’s eyes. Of course, angling is a form of ritualized torture and is indefensible, nothing likes to be dragged, gasping into an alien environment.

But love has always excused bad behaviour.

In my dreams, I often paddle my canoe through fairy tale landscapes full of bridges, castles, and ogres. I cast towards rippling movements, desperate to feel a living creature wriggling on the end of my line.

Water is supposed to be a symbol of the subconscious, because it has a thin surface skin that hides deep-dwelling demons and monsters. Dream psychology books say “fishing” represents an attempt to capture dark knowledge, to learn awkward, stubborn lessons that can only be retrieved with a hook in the throat.

It would be convenient if the subconscious communicated via clear text messages or itemized lists, but it refuses. It just sends fish.

Endless fish.

And I paddle my canoe through meandering switchbacks with surprising hidden ponds, where herons rise into the air like winged, squawking dinosaurs.

Cast and retrieve. Cast and retrieve. It’s a form of meditation and the varied properties of water are my focus.

Calm water is metal, and braided fishing line is a laser, slicing the reflective surface open. When a hooked fish rises, it feels like an act of creation because the fish materializes from nothingness, from chaos. A shadow-form simply separates from other shadows and is simultaneously light and dark, honest in its duality. Suspended in that strange murk-jelly world, fish are solemn and wise, able to feel the rotation of the planet and sense its trajectory around the sun.

But fish also dance in dangerous currents, invigorated by subtle barometric changes that presage storms. They congregate, siren-like, near submerged rocks and the hulks of scuttled boats, daring humans to follow.

Cast and retrieve.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I leave the fairy tale landscapes and fish near modern lodges. Those faux-rustic buildings are always full of incompetent dream-anglers, lounging on shore waiting for bad weather to break. They sit under covered porches, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee while guides untangle their line and ready the tackle.

I paddle through driving rain that threatens to liquify the air, and I float right in front of those clumsy hunters. I stare at them with black-marble eyes and inevitably experience an instant of pure happiness: a fish jumps at the end of my line, shakes its magnificent head, and flares armored gill plates like a creature from Revelations. The mouth yawns open, lips contort, and it tells everyone that it loves only me.

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Mark Thomas is an artist and writer living in St. Catharines, Canada. Check out his work HERE.