Monday, July 30, 2007

Ibuprofen, a drink, and a smoke. Where did I put the damn bottles?

gah. Why do I want to be an architect? Why does my head hurt? Why is it my fault?

Sunday, July 29, 2007

The sun is filtering redly through a smear of brown across the sky.

Controlled burn. I breathe deeply testing for smoke; it isn't there.

A dry summer; I've wondered that the DNR hadn't started doing this earlier...

Monday, July 23, 2007

The clutch slides gently closed under his open leather fingers and smoke billows from the rear wheel. The tach needle swings upward and then drops as the tire melds with asphalt and then

launches

the bit of red and black metal hurtles forward, its rider crouched tightly over the bars. Iridiscent warped blue gauges reflect off the chromed visor - he has morphed into a metallic animal, left foot flicking hydraulically each time the tachometer needle crosses the redline.

One red light

two
three
fourfivesixseveneight

Sunday, July 22, 2007

the more I run the more the scenery stays the same

Thursday, July 19, 2007

"I think I should start looking for another job."

"What why are you doing all right?"

"The pressure's getting to me. We go around in the afternoon
I get up in the morning and say good morning and snap off the orders
blah blah blah and then, all right LET'S DO IT.

And we go
It is one thing to set the bridge on fire.

It is another thing to stand there and watch it burn.

"What did you do?"

"Why are you doing this? Why?"

because it makes sense

screech

Monday, July 16, 2007

more trip

Under the ten thousand watts of the noontime Nevada sun, I can no longer stand the hardened foam and the 55.2 degree angle of the footpegs. The throttle snaps closed and the chain pulls the motorcycle down from speed and we angle off the freeway, throbbing silence rising, crowding the helmet and throbbing heat sinking into collar and sleeves. The Mobil sign shimmers in the heat, the pump roof projects a massive rectangular black hole in the desert. I roll into the black hole next a pump and sigh inside.

I stand up (both knees crack), I take off my helmet and peel off my gloves, and take a deep breath of hot dust. “t's friggin' hot.”
But things have been this way for black-leather for a while, and he's become used to it. It's a matter, for him, of exploring the good things about the solitary path he's chosen, becoming attached to these, and avoiding the pressure around him to see things according to anyone and everyone else's point of view. It sounds selfish except to the discerning; for to make friends one does not have to be like them, and other points of view are useful only insofar as they help one discharge the requirements of utilitarian friendship or cooperation.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

My friend in the black leather had seated himself near the left end of the 20-stool bar. He ordered the house special that night: a pint of india pale, and sat with his elbows on the bar, hunched over the glass. Judging by the position of his head and what I could see of his face in the dead TV screen overhead, he was fixing a stare in either of two directions: straight ahead or straight toward the far edge of the bar. Beasts or gods. There is an unforgivable sin: that of rejection of any currently accepted authorities in the broad field of nonconformity, consequent to the rejection of the authorities over the sheep. It is not only unforgivable, it appears irrational. It does not proceed from weakness; it proceeds from a choice made on premises known to the chooser alone. He is truly alone in his sin; all thinking men shake their heads at him. Black leather props a heel against the steel ring under the stool. Excommunication used to be a penalty that destroyed societal and business ties as well as religious ones, and it has again taken on its old significance. Black-leather has been excommunicated, which rules out the possibility of his being a god. Hence only "beast" remains, and that is the category into which he has been placed. The classification denotes him as sub-rational, and this has inevitable consequences.
Aristotle says that the man who lives outside society is either a beast or a god. This quote was running through my head as I stood the motorcycle on the sidestand and pulled off my helmet. Across the street he was doing the same. He shoved the key deep into his black leather pocket and walked toward the Brew Pub, unconscious that he was being followed at a distance.

I entered the well-lit brewery nearly on his heels and went to my customary table in the corner. The place was nearly empty as it should be on a Wednesday night. It was never very full except during the late night hours of Friday and Saturday. The waitress showed up to take my order, knowing what she would hear before I said anything. She only worked Tuesdays and Wednesdays since she was facially disfigured: she had no nose. I couldn't figure out why a pub in this heavily trafficked part of town would hire a noseless waitress, but here she worked, and my secret nickname for her was Faceless. For some reason I always tipped Faceless half my five or six-dollar bill; maybe I felt sorry for the cruel trick violence had played her, or maybe I wanted her to keep her job here. I liked Faceless even though I rarely spoke a word to her; she was important and symbolic in some way.

She would probably resent being thought of as a symbol; after all she was a human being with her own loves and hatreds. Nonetheless Faceless was one reason I patronized this place - Faceless, the chocolate stouts and awful but fitting bric-a-brac. And the counters and tables were scrubbed clean every night until they shone. This, and the good lighting, lent a cold and impersonal atmosphere to the place.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

So post something about my trip.

Yeah.

Well, I have some pictures. I don't know. It's hard to take a picture of desert broiling up into the sun, or of hard speedboat wakes of wind turbulence grasping me my main force and shoving me into the fast lane. Hard to take a picture of a South Dakota accent or even South Dakota much of anything. Or Wyoming, for god's sake. Well, SD has the Badlands, and WY has Yellowstone, so there are redeeming moments.

The main thing was, my once a year ritual of being on the road for an extended period of time and being disattached to everything and everyone was routinely performed and I felt better afterwards as I always do. It's a natural consequence of boring into one's job and one's life and eating it and breathing it for a year. Breaking loose really helps.

Why is the main patron of a smoke shop in St. George Nevada the middle aged woman? And why was the proprietor of said shop maintaining a humidor FULL of empty premium cigar boxes?

Why do RV's set up such an evil vacuum on the freeway?

Why do national parks cost so much? Why does the KOA campground in Cody, WY charge $29.95 for a patch of rough dirt?

Why do small towns still exist with gravel main streets exactly wide enough for a team of oxen to hang a U-turn? And run gas stations out of an abandoned co-op?

Why does Salt Lake City at nine p.m. give me the creeps?

Why isn't there any shade to sit and eat a clif bar and drink SoBe in Southern Wyoming?

Why does Suzuki make such hard friggin' motorcycle seats?

Why don't Wyoming cops pull me over for doing 15 over the speed limit? And why are Wyoming drivers even worse than Minnesota drivers?

Why do I feel so lightheaded at 9,100 feet? The motorcycle doesn't seem to run much different.

Where is the nerve in my back that I'm convinced will never be the same? I can't reach it...and it hurts...

Saturday, July 07, 2007

Monday: Getting back home.
Tuesday: Wondering where everything is. Going out and drinking a lot at a place on Hy.33
Wednesday: Waking up at noon with a headache. Talking my head off about my trip to an interested listener. Ordering pizza for supper. Going to the beach and having a large, expensive collection of high-powered fireworks blow up in my face like a grenade.
Thursday: Everything goes wrong at work.
Friday: Everything goes wrong at work the first half of the day. I buy my roommate an iPod for his birthday present.

Why don't I sit down and properly think about what just happened to me? There's no time for friggin' artistry.

Monday, July 02, 2007

I'm back. It's over. And my butt is sore. And I have new muscles in my left forearm from clutching through six-speeds over and over and over and over.

I noticed this for the first time tonight: The Santa Clarita valley smells like dust and citrus. It's a very distinct smell, but not one I've ever noticed before.