PoS

Day after day, week after week, Robert pummeled me with the challenge.

"Daniel," he said, "Let's take these old cane rods off of the wall and go try them on the river."

The river was scant feet away.  We had endless skeins of graphite, fiberglass, and cane between us and it.  Why. That. Fucking. Piece of. Shit. Post-WWII. Japanese. Rod, for gawd's sake, Robert??

It's a learning opportunity, he said without so many words.  

"For Christ's Sake, man, I've had enough of this shit!  How much from graphite to fiberglass to cane do I need to take to understand?"

"But, wait.  Maybe I do understand.  Maybe the student has succeeded the master.  My arm, my subtle twist of wrist, my feeling of the load that this, that, and the other line impart are oh, so, sufficient."

"Aye, I get the feeling.  I got it before.  It's a rhythm, eh?  Yeah, not so hard to imagine and make time with.  Oh, for your acquaintances?  So be it.  I'll move on.  Will you be with me?"

Then, we had a new understanding.  No, the pupil had not exceeded the master, but the pupil was his, his own.  Every pupil before him had thought as much, but not every master had known more.

The time had come for the pupil to seek virtuosity without constraint. Thank you, Robert, I love, I admire the perfection that you demonstrate.  It is beautiful. It is complete.  

It is not me.  THIS is me.  And, in it, I sense the tool, the trailing and the forwarding line that, load upon load, telegraphs what WE do together transmutes from mere waving of a wand into this, wei wu wei.