On Space Fish by Guest Author: Justin Armstrong
Photo by Jonathan Kelley
“What if there were space fish?”
“You mean fish that swim around in space?”
“Yeah, they would swim around amongst the planets and stars. In the space currents.”
“That’s very interesting. But there aren’t currents in space, there isn’t anything. Space fish would have a propulsion problem.”
“Oh. Because space, it’s like, a vacuum?”
“Right, moving their tails and fins wouldn’t cause them to move, they couldn’t move themselves.”
“They would need jets or something.”
“Or something.”
[from hank’s sketchbook]
In short order, JK banjaxed my dreams of Space Fish. I pointed my eyes back to the window into the night sky framed by sycamore branches, and in the center of this hole in the forest canopy was a constellation whose name I didn’t know.
I reminded myself that it wouldn’t matter even if Space Fish were real. Because things that are spectacular can only remain spectacular for a few moments. If a scientist found a pod of Space Fish it would be headline news for an entire day, maybe even two. But then Space Fish would be in the clutches of the internet, the internet that introduces new information and immediately begins churning it inside the content cycle. As it iterates it mutates that information, spinning it on itself until it becomes a parody of what it was when it began. This takes moments. Within days of their discovery, Space Fish would be memefied. Twitter would start in awe but then slowly start to mock. Then Space Fish would somehow become an oddly partisan issue. Within a week there would be BuzzFeed quizzes: “What Type of Space Fish are You? (Number 7s, you know who you are!)”.
It wouldn’t matter if Space Fish were real, because the most spectacular things become homogenized at light speed once they are discovered. We move so fast now, new things can only be new for a few moments. The special starts to rub off and the sharp edges that make them unique are filed smooth the instant we begin to explain and define them. We have to explain them. We want to understand them. And we want others to know that we understand. The thing that defied the norms we created now fits concisely in our pocket.
I found Space Fish in the corner of two states, where the small towns are still set in the 1980s, and the tacos are pretty good. They’ve been sitting out there this whole time and no one raised their hand to let others know they found them. As anglers, we bemoan the “now”. We lust with nostalgia for yesteryear, for less pressure, for solitude in unsullied fisheries. We lust for something that hasn’t been “found” yet. We’re looking for that place that progress forgot to include, that place that was either undiscovered or visited only by those who knew to keep their mouths shut.
Which is why I can’t tell you about Space Fish. The Space Fish can only remain special if I find them and don’t tell anyone. I can’t allow anyone the opportunity to colonize and adulterate them, to make them part of the human universe. So I’m not going to tell you about Space Fish.
-Justin Armstrong
