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ately, when in need of solitude, i've taken to disappearing into a remote bayou area of clear lake and fishing from an old wooden dock.  With my trusty saltwater rig and a Styrofoam cup full of nasty frozen shrimp I slowly trawl the bottom of a murky inlet as time slowly oozes by.  The whole exercise is about finding quiet and peace by myself and engaging in an activity as close to doing nothing as I can, and yet I invariably catch a fish.  It kind of goes against the goal of what i'm actually trying to accomplish, which is doing nothing, by inadvertently achieving something.  It always follows the same routine too; I languidly sit stooped over the edge of the water, toss out my crustacean laden hook as closely as I can to the shadowy far bank, and then ever so slowly crank the stem of my fishing pole and drag the bait across the slimy bottom.   Today it was a whopper of a catfish, well; it was certainly at the extreme end of what I can physically pull in with my flimsy 25 lb test line.  And I always feel obliged to fillet and eat the poor sucker, once again forcing myself to do far more labour than I was intending.  You know, the only real problem with doing nothing is that you can never really tell when you're done.  Oh well, at least Alicia got a nice meal out of the deal.