The fly tying bench glowed from the corner of the room as the bobbin swung rhythmically back and forth. The 8ought UNI thread slowly danced to its unwinding point. The now-straightened thread appeared almost at full rest, glistening under the small fly tying bench lamp, as it regained its smooth and flat appearance. The dangling thread clinging on to the size 12 Klinkhamer hook, safely embraced by the jaws of the new Renzetti, gave whispers of artistic creativity, awaiting its transformation to come.
The dim rays of the tying lamp illuminated the endless stacked plastic boxes and containers, resting on aged maple wooden slabs. Obnoxious stains and imperfections were hastily stealing detail from the sophisticated natural grain from years of use and abuse. This gave rise to a rustic hue, an old cabin vibe, or an overcrowded but finely organized fly tying nook. Shelves of materials: furs, feathers, synthetics, foam, beads, threads, flash, hooks, and books – swallowed the crowded corner of the room.
The amount of fly tying materials amassed through the years, the stories, and knowledge was surely impressive; but resting here in the dimly light and dark room, it was as if it were a performance without an audience. A display of knowledge and passion, lost in obscurity.
The empty fly tying chair, swiveling around its 5 wheeled-legged axis, was petering to a stop. An intense hour on the vise, spinning up a 1 month old project-of-a-box of new bugs, had taken its toll.
As the fly tying bench glowed softly in the corner of the room, the shadows from the adjacent bookshelves suddenly danced themselves across the abandoned and dust covered spines from timeless pieces. The light from the window suddenly shifted, and the room’s ambiance hinted at an impending storm outside. The faint and rhythmic dance of raindrops soon replaced the gentle hum of the fly tying lamp as the storm clouds gathered and the outside world transformed into a symphony of nature’s fury.
Early spring rain poured down onto the small Viennese apartment balcony. The sounds of the downpour had drowned out the faint and familiar pitter-patter of apartment building acoustics. The thump of muffled neighbor footsteps, the low hum of base infused hip-hop reverberations from the floor above, and the obscure sound of a lonely barking dog somewhere down the street, were all swiftly swallowed whole with the torrential rainy arrival.
As the quick moving stormcell centered on this sleepy suburb gasse, nature stole back the auditory senses the city dwellers once possessed. The view from the glass patio doors revealed a deluge of moisture, picking up in volume and intensity. The trees, with their freshly sprouted leaves and flowering buds, suddenly took on a wilted appearance as they began to be waterlogged.
A small blacktop stream emerged into existence from the excess water and carried away the last remaining remnants of late winter artifacts. A flash of lighting from the surging storm strobed the inside of the flat, probing the interior walls and illuminating the country style furniture and the glowing fly tying nook.
The menacing dark blue and greenish clouds swirled ever about, silently gliding by, obscuring the sun amidst heavy and slow-moving rain shafts. A couple more lightning strikes flashed aggressively into the surrounding neighborhood, as though searching but never exactly finding the right target.
Accompanied by the thunderous thunder claps and long rumbling drawn-out building-rattling vibrations, the storm began to shift its trajectory. Abruptly, hints of blue skies could be seen in the distance, on the horizon, just over the wind swept trees, creating a striking contrast between the deep grays of the storm front, the green quilt of springtime tree lines, and the baby blues of the coming respite.
The fly tying bench glowed from the corner of the room. It was calling out, almost as if whispering secrets.
Back in the seat at the desk, the metal pointed canvas recaptured my attention and spirit. Thoughts of big rainbows, Grayling, and browns, and what this year had in store; fueled each wrap.
The thread, awoken from its slumber rest, twisted back to life in the bobbin. Each wrap, painting a clearer and clearer image. Each wrap, deciphering the aquatic language written by water and fish.
The fly tying bench glowed from the corner of the room.
