lovely scars

I'm getting deep into The Dharma Bums, but I figure I owe it to some people (like six of you, or so, who actually read this) to keep the updates coming. The fodder to fill this blank, white rectangle is something that is difficult for me to find, at moments. At other moments, I'm straining my seams with bold ideas and tales of adventure and deeds done, but I'm miles away from the keys. The whirling torrent of nonsense that is my psyche does not have the patience nor the amabition, despite my own best intentions, to keep anything meaningful or coherent for the amount of time it takes to get tab A to slot B. So I'm left with this blank, white rectangle. Its soft glow is maddening.

Conversation turned, the other night, to recurring dreams, so I've been giving mine some more thought and it occurs to me that I've had many in my lifetime - and still do, from time to time. In fact, a new one has cropped up in recent weeks. I am still drawing new details each time I wake from it. Putting the whole thing together is a painstaking process, but even once I understand it for myself - or at least have a clear picture of it in my head - I don't think I will share any of it here - some things are meant only for one's self. We all have our faults, shortcomings, and regrets in our lives; I'm just not ready to strip myself bare for all to see. Some claim doing so is a cathartic process, but I'm not even clear enough yet on what it is that has ailed me for these decades to begin any sort of healing. For now, I'll carry on, taking comfort from every scar and callus, knowing that each is tougher than the flesh it replaced.

don't honk at cylists unless you're sure you can back it up

This afternoon, I ditched work a bit early to get a ride in with ThomP,his fiancee Miriam, and a small crew that met up at International in Newton. The ride was short and sweet, about an hour and a half around Cutler Park, which lies just down the road from the shop. It was shaping up to be the perfect end to the day - a ride in the woods with some good friends on a sunny, April afternoon.

However...
As we were making our way back on the road at about 7:30pm, a driver laid on his horn as he passed our group. The road at this point, you may be interested to know, is three lanes wide with a center, turning lane, yielding plenty of room for a car to safely get around cyclists, even riding two or three abreast. Well, to make a long story short, I gave the driver a salute, which he returned in kind, to which I responded with a bark reserved for such occasions. "Come on!", accompanied with a two handed wave, beckoning back to myself. Really, my language got no more blue than that. What was stirring inside was much more serious.

I'm usually pretty good about bridling my rage. In a case of driver v. cyclist, though, that cool quickly unravels. I should continue to preface by letting you all know that I'm actually pretty ambivalent toward a lot of cyclists on the road, but let me explain this. Cycling, I believe firmly, has a place on the streets, without question. The problem I have is with many cyclists, not with cycling. Living in a large city for as long as I have, I've seen plenty of riders who eschew prudence and ride in an entirely lawless manner, without regard for any road user but themselves - cyclists, cars, pedestrians included. These people irritate me to no end because they are often also most vocal about their 'rights' on the road.

With all this constantly in the back of my mind, I ride respectfully, while taking advantage of my size on the road and clear view of my surroundings from which motor vehicles don't benefit. When I come to a line of stopped traffic, I'll ride through until things get moving again and merge back into the flow. I'll stop at an intersection, but if it's safe for me and won't interfere with other traffic, I'll slip across. I am, however, constantly cognizant of the fact that there are other users on the road, and I don't ever do anything deliberately to impede their own travel (Critical Mass, THAT is aimed directly at you). That behavior only broadens the rift and elevates the tension felt between motorized- and non-motorized- road users.

What this all comes down to is: When someone is inconsiderate enough to make an aggressive gesture of any kind toward me or the people riding with me, I take it personally. Very personally. As in: I lose it. Completely. It's a David Banner moment, for sure. And as I think back on it, it's probably best for me that the driver of that black Camry didn't stop. I like to believe I would have only given him a piece of my mind, but at that moment, I was thinking with my clenched fists.

i came back here for something, but i forgot what that is

So here I sit, thinking I'd like to go for a ride today, but instead of collecting my shit and getting my bike out of the basement, I find myself noodling on the computer and thinking about how much I really don't want to do anything outside when it's 39 degrees and windy. Having just come home from a week in Texas and the week before that in Southern California, this weather seems straight-up unreasonable.

Funny. This trip did one other thing to flip my perceptions. There was a time when I thought that, if I could afford it, it'd be nice to live somewhere in Southern Cal - not anywhere near LA or the Inland Empire where I was two weeks ago, but somewhere down the coast, near San Diego. This trip, though, I really fell for Texas.

The open and desolate expanses of West Texas, well, they are what they are and there's no arguing that. But on this trip, I discovered bits of Texas that no one ever tells you about. Austin (okay, so most of you know about Austin) is now one of my favorite cities in the world, thanks to the amazing music scene, great bars, crépes(?! Flip Happy!!), interesting landscape, and the generally relaxed and welcoming feel of the place.

Dallas is a genuine, big city that is way more cosmopolitan than anyone I've ever met is willing to tell you (Well, except Chris and Ann), and the rolling, green, tree-dotted landscape that surrounds it is nothing like the Texas we all think we know. Drive south on I-45, out of the city and toward the Sam Houston National Forest, and it becomes just plain stunning.

And then there's the people. I learned that Texas' state motto is "Friendly", which a group of us joked about when we first dug up that bit of trivia. After a few days, though, it began to occur to me - it's true, and not in a weird way, but in a very genuine way. As a lifelong Bostonian, I'll openly admit I have some preconceived notions about the nature of people - most of them are not flattering. Seven days in Texas made me question every last one of them. Now, I can't get the place off my mind.

with trowel and mortar in one hand, discarded shoelace and torn scrap of paper in the other, and after too long, i find myself ready again for battle

I once proudly wore the moniker “wordsmith” – a dirty, red brick on my shoulder that was equal parts chip to be knocked off, cornerstone to build great edifices of conversation, and missile to carry argument through window pane.

As I rove a distant corner of the vacant lot that has been my creative self - a barren place of decay and rubble and dull throbbing and grey - I shuffle my feet through the dust and watch the cloud billow and swirl and settle. My mind is at once everywhere and nowhere until the flash of brilliant white that accompanies pain as a toe meets a corner in the dark - the corner of a dirty, red brick.

The dry earth surrounding it, packed hard with neglect, chafes and leaves my knuckles bloody, but it feels good. It feels good to be down low and raw and rough. It feels good to claw and dig and tear away at the debris. It feels good to have my brick back.