They are all insane. 1/4 of the way through, I conclude that all the characters are simply insane. The women are hysterical, the men have lost their wits, the children are monsters.

I like Tolstoy better. At least I can relate to his characters. I can't relate to Dostoevsky's people at all except on a blurred and passing level. My own moments of insanity are just that: moments.

Page 246. I like Ivan Karamazov. He asks difficult questions.

I need sleep. I can't read anymore. good lord, I need sleep...and I have to do lock up at 2 am. Thank goodness I'm not a prefect all the time...

"and if today I heard she was in trouble or needed me or if there was anything I could do I would do everything I could to help her. She doesn't even know me." Straight brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the clearest hazel eyes in a sharp German face. Quiet, so quiet. An animal inside those eyes, patiently awaiting independence and and the patience is wearing thin. And when it breaks out no one will stop it. This house of cards will crumble before it.

I listen to the footsteps of the wolf. I can't get up, I don't want to get up. I am welded to her eyes and the goodness I want to be there. Her beautiful hazel eyes. It's a complete...

"Enough! Enough with the hazel eyes shit already! You gonna fight, or you gonna sit there and let me drink your blood?!"

...complete construct. It isn't real. The eyes aren't real. I made it all up. I'm in love with a fake. The hell with the hazel eyes. But they will never go away, they always circle back and haunt me, with the wolf. She goes hunting with the wolf.

But the wolf is real.

snarl

I roll over with my fists clamped to my ears. "There isn't...won't be any blood left for you to feed on, you cursed. Do you know where I am? Do you know where I'm going to be? I'm going so far away you'll never be able to find me. I'm going to go so fast, you'll never be able to catch me..."

The wolf crouches slowly, sheer contempt in its orange eyes. It knows, as I know, that I will never go so far, never go so fast, never hide so well that it and she, both of them, will never circle round to find me and hold my face to a broken memory like broken glass. If I heard she was in trouble I would do everything to help her...

Blogger is finally running as fast as it ought to be.

I just made a discovery: I can transport a week or more worth of groceries without even filling up the saddlebags. Motorcycles are fun AND useful!! 3.69 gallons of unleaded premium moves me 140 miles and costs $11. Motorcycles are fun and cheap, too!

Brothers K. is NOT reading as fast as I want it to, yet I feel like I'm flying through the book. I'm about to break 200 pages already. But I have 600 more to go...I'll never get to my thesis. Damn you TAC seminar schedule...

I'm tired and cranky. Steve invited the five or eight of us down to his house to watch movies. Heck, I say, I've already blown the evening grocery-shopping, why not blow the rest of it.

The bike is still warm, so I'm going to gocart down to the gatehouse. Save a few minutes that way, and after the movie maybe I can build a fire and make some small dent in the mountain of pages in BK. I wonder what movie Steve has lined up for tonight...last night it was Lady in the Lake, definitely not M.Night's best work, but it had its comic moments - good acting...

Alone, in the dark, but with a means of escape: a blazing fire, fake cocoa, and Brothers Karamazov.

I love Russian writers. And musicians.

I'm going to go wander back down to my dorm and call my parents before it gets too late. "Mom, Dad, I got through finals week and I'm ok. Sitting by myself down here. Work starts tomorrow. Yeah, I'll be busy. Maybe going to San Diego for Christmas. How cold is it? Really? Brrrrr. I'm going to go drink hot water with cocoa-flavored sugar mixed in with it and read stories about Russians before I go to bed. Yeah, sounds good. Talk to you later. Love you. Bye."

Shouldn't take me more than five minutes.

I'm blogging because it's half an hour before dinner and I have nothing to do.

I rode down to Howdy's this afternoon to pick up Suzi's shop manual. I like to get a repair manual for any substantial piece of machinery that I own as soon as possible so that, if it breaks, I won't be totally helpless.

I decided that today being nice and humid and warm, it would be a good day to tighten the girth, adjust the stirrups and rein and...ride onto the freeway. It was time. I'd been riding secondary roads in heavy traffic, curvy roads in light traffic, and now it is time to chip a few more off the eggshell. I rolled through town, reviewing in my mind all the things I'd heard and theorized about blind spots and high speed obstacle avoidance.

I sat at the red light across from the Chevron station, bouncing the forks, praying to the Blessed Virgin, and thinking to myself, 'ok tiger, this is it'. The next few minutes will determine whether or not a motorcycle is truly practical transportation for me, and in a more remote sense, whether or not I will spend the rest of my life as a hopeless cripple. Well, not thinking about that second part.

The light glowed green, I snapped on the blinker and handed out the clutch. The freeway ramp glistened satin in the late afternoon sun as I toed Suzi through all five gears. Hmmmming along the superslab at 60 mph, I thought to myself, hey this isn't all that bad. Here I am, with a massively broad, perfectly smooth road to ride on with no intersections, mailboxes, telephone poles or four-foot canals to slam into. And I'm sitting up high, I can see all around, and gosh, the wind smells good...

...and gosh (twisting the throttle slightly and pegging the needle at 70) hanging on is a lot of work...I wouldn't want to sit here holding these handlebars for dear life for hours on end....

...(twisting and pegging at 80) gosh this is a lot of work and not so much fun and (thunk) wait what's that slapping my backside slowing down, slowing down (detwist to 70, then 60) I can't turn and look damn those saddlebags I bet I look stupid, really stupid right now and a minivan passed me on the left. I looked sheepishly towards it, expecting someone to be gesturing toward my (apparently) loose and flapping bags. Thunk, slap thunk thunk. Okay, I'm not going to pull over in rush-hour traffic. I'll just ride another mile to the Main Street exit and deal with the mess then.

Off the freeway, jet across into the left turn lane and slow, all is calm 30 serene mph. I slow to a stop at the red light and kick into neutral. The bags had flapped up off the sides of the bike, twisted against the grab strap and twisted themselves into a truly ghetto-looking mess on the rear seat. Damn. I guess riding on the freeway with empty bags is not an option unless I keep the speeds below 70.

I cranked over to the bike shop, picked up the book, stopped by Target.

part deux

I had to pick up some highlighters, as I was out of them.

I found my desired el cheapo brand and made beeline to the express lane to make my $1.60 purchase. The cashier took a second look at me, a towering mass of cordura and plastic armor. "You a motorcyclist?"

"Yes" - poking my card in the slot - "I am."

"What kind of motorcycle"

"I uh, I ride an 82" - the machine spits out my card; I key the pin - "Suzuki GS1100."

"Ah. I ride Harleys. I like them."

I looked at her again. She was probably younger than I was, but didn't have a lot of piercings.

"Mm. I like my Suzuki....it's reliable..... gets good gas mileage....."

"Have a good day."

"Yeah, you too."

I think I have unwittingly taken my place in a new strata of society. Motorcycling is indeed a way of life, as I'm coming to learn, and those who ride come to know those who ride...(especially when those who ride have to walk around everywhere looking like, well, bikers...)

It should be interesting. It's kind of cool. We'll see what happens.

My question right now is this: Are Harley drivers and Jap drivers supposed to, well, get along?

I mean, is this like Chevy vs. Honda? What's the etiquette is in this strange new society? Am I supposed to even give the wave to these Harley dudes? So many new things to learn about...

Last final is over.

I hope I haven't failed. I don't think so, but at this school, that means nothing.

One more final to go, one more afternoon submerged in Aristotle. I hope the snorkel doesn't leak.

I had Suzi's brake lights fixed on Tuesday, coinciding with my second and final payment on the bike. She's all mine now, and even better, people can tell when I'm stopping. The brake light wasn't entirely awol before, but required absurd amounts of pressure to click into life, and thus only useful by squeezing the brakes gorilla-fashion when stopped. Did no good for the crucial slowing-down part.

But now it's all fine and properly touchy. Now I need to be disciplined about keeping my right toe from creeping foward off the peg and onto the rear brake lever, so I don't say "stop" when I'm not stopping. But that shouldn't be too hard.

Okay. Aristotle. (pushes chair back from desk) Let's do it.

What's cooler than a box of crayons?
A bigger box of crayons.

Philosophers disagree not on the distinctions made, but on which distinctions are important.
-Berquist

Longitudinal waves in the lunch line.

A falling leaf rotating about its axis.

A dull pain at the capital vertebra.

Lack of imagination, and bicycling in sand.

Suzi sounds good in a tunnel at 6000 rpm. *heh*
And 62 degrees + 55mph wind chill at the bottom of a valley is FRICKING COLD!!!! ((shivering))

Most important values:

Generosity, under which is comprehended the willingness to go to ridiculous lengths to do good to other people.

Reverence, under which genus is comprehended the species respect.

Respect for God.

Respect for parents.

Respect for friends.

Respect for nature.

Of these, respect may not be what it seems.

Ok, adeomata, I like the Pascalian approach better.

Masses of cumulus clouds pad the horizon and a gentle late-summer breeze dusts through the alfalfa fields as I pedal toward the empty intersection. I could smell freshly mown hay and alfalfa and listened to the rustle in the popple trees. A car or two swished by and left dents in the breeze. I sniffed the air and turned my head to let the airstream wash over the side of my helmet.

"I'm really going to miss this. I don't think they have sunsets this nice out in California. At any rate I'll be far too busy to enjoy them."

I couldn't breathe enough of the clean country air that had been shoved over thousands of miles of flat nothingness. I figured I'd miss it.

Fast forward four years...(heh. four years)...and I'm sitting on the crest of a ridge seperating the peaceful Upper Ojai Valley in the north from the populated bustle to the south. Faraway bustle, way-down-there in a shimmering carpet of streetlights. Up here, on this little mesa of weeds and sage, it is absolutely, frozenly, frighteningly still. I listen hard and the silence is deafening. The air smells of dust and citrus and vegetables and sage. The flat tinsel quilt that is Oxnard scintillates in waves. The sun has sunk behind the mountains on the western coast and left them fingers of rough lava thrust into a rim of fire. The lava rears out of the ocean in a couple humpbacked forms - the Channel Islands.

I had never seen such colors in the sky. I guess I had forgotten to look, or was paying too much attention to the nondescript smell of the breeze. My eye traveled from the place where the sun used to be, all the way up and over and across the hemisphere. Burnt-red orange yellow pink purple deep lavender to blue and all the way back to reddish blue again and then chalk-blue on the eastern horizon. The eastern mountains stood out chalk on chalk, beige against the blue. The moon hadn't risen yet, but I knew that when it did it would be a massive orange ball. SoCal moonrises are one of a kind.

Half an hour later I was striding down the gravel road in the dark. It took me twenty minutes to hike back to where I'd parked the bike, collapsible-chair and backpack a not-yet-uncomfortable weight against my back. I found all as I had left it- helmet clipped to the side lock, saddlebags untouched, bike still upright in the gravel patch. I slipped the helmet on, swung a leg over and thumbed the starter. The motorcycle growled quietly to itself and we glided away onto the twisting saddled ribbon otherwise known as Sulphur Mountain Road. It's a road that goes on and on, twists and turns and ducks and dives like a roller-coaster and you never know what the next turn is going to look like. Suzi handles a like a bike 2/3 her weight even at 20 mph.

I caught glimpses of Ojai through the trees as we slithered in second gear through twist after twist. The road warped right and left in the yellowed bar of the headlight beam. The tach and speedo glowed warm orange, both needles down and out of my peripheral vision. It was okay, I didn't need to know. I was going too slowly. A quick check showed 2000 at 25 mph. I quickly got a feel for how loud 30 mph exhaust note sounded, and went by that.

Something bounded away into the trees ahead. Maybe that doe I saw earlier, on my way up. Where there's one there's two. I passed the spot and glanced around, no animal life in sight.

It seemed like fifty twists later before we finally plunged into the cold lake of air at the bottom of the valley. Business as usual now. The road shook itself straight, we coasted up to the stopsign behind the dumpsters, and carefully nosed out into the two-lane, headed home. I'd make it back for supper after all.

Thanksgiving break was peaceful and relaxing and properly vegatative. I spent it at Kakashi's house and partook of a real family Thanksgiving dinner, numerous sessions of youtube-watching, two episodes of the Simpsons, an EXCELLENT movie (the 'Proposition') video games and various other time-wasting activities. It was nice.

I also took the opportunity of being in the vicinity of a 'Beverages and More' to replenish my stock of liquor with a seventy-five of Fighting Cock bourbon. Supposed to be pretty good stuff. We'll see. I also aquired (finally!) some proper shot glasses. Goodbye to the days of drinking out of teacups; may they never return.

I need to get some work done on my thesis. Now that the bike project is off my mind, I ought to have the leisure to do so.

Well, this is only a filler post, I've got nothing to say, and I'm waiting for a phone call. I'm going to go back to the Communist Manifesto (interesting reading btw, I highly recommend it).

Happy T-day, ya'll.

"Suzi"



Not bad for 24 years old, eh?

Kakashi: "Do you have to take pictures NOW? It's almost dark outside!"

Tasik: "But I want to have something to post - it's been days now."

Kakashi: "The pictures are going to suck."

Tasik: "I don't care, alright. We'll take better pictures later."

Kakashi: (grrrrrr)

Tasik: "And don't bother editing them."

Kakashi: (grrrrr)

Dang it, Blogger is being recalcitrant.

I'll try uploading pictures again tomorrow.

Spent an hour or so on Sat. practicing threshold braking. Managed to lock up rear wheel numerous times (one of which sent me into a scary skid - a good education in what not to do). I did not succeed in locking up front. This big girl hauls herself down in a hurry - braking from 30 mph seems to require a lot less distance than in a car.

Smooth, oh so smooth...I just can't get over that lovely four-cylinder resonance (and it's only on stock pipes!)

Whilst commenting on another blog and typing the phrase " '82 Suzuki GS1100E" it came to me that the perfect name might very well be the make abbreviation in the title transfer form.

Year Model - 82
Make - Suzi
License plate # - etc.

Suzi.

It's smooth. It's red.

I think it will work.

Just blew fifty bucks on a cheap bike cover, a quart of motorcycle oil, and a can of Blue Magic chrome polish.

The flying blue shadows are still imprinted on my memory. I haven't felt this good in a long time. A very long time.

When I was little I wanted to fly. Now I'm partially realizing that desire...

I found her! I found her! And she's mine! (dreams do come true)

Not sure what to name her yet, but she's the same age I am, and purrs like a...cat. It's a Suzuki 1100 (yes, an 1100cc) seventy-four-thousand miles old, and has the well worn, well oiled feel of an old leather boot. It's faded metallic red, all the pipes and metal glowing in sheer mechanical beauty. Not a spot of rust (except maybe under the exhaust pipes somewhere) And because it has a real engine, I can feel the exhaust note in my chest (crazy grin).

I drove her into town this morning to fill her up with gas. It was a beautiful experience, the cold wind pressing my jacket and visor, the blue shadow blur EVERYWHERE, the engine gently warm against my knees and seat, the exhaust grrrrrrsnaprrraprrrring to itself.

I'm in love.

I can't go on about it, because it's lunchtime, but pics are coming soon, I promise....)

I successfully completed the MSF Basic RiderCourse last weekend. I highly recommend it; it's fast paced, but fun, and you learn to do just about any low-speed maneuver you want to do with a street bike. You learn to swerve, u-turn, ride over 2x4's, and stop fast. Well, sort of fast. We didn't actually do any threshold braking where you get up to speed then haul it down at the squeal limit. But we did practice fast stops in turns, the whole straighten-up, square-bars and hammer the brakes. We were taught never to brake where the bike isn't perpendicular to the ground, always turn the head in the direction we want to go, always downshift while braking, so on etc and so forth.

I passed the final riding test with zero points (points are negative), and was given a completion card by Bob who had to stand on a chair to reach (all the MSF instructors' names are Bob. If anyone messes up, it's Bob's fault.)

Now all I need to do is carve a sliver out of next week and go to the DMV and get my motorcycle endorsement. The light approaches from the end of the tunnel...

I also bought my upper-body armor and jacket. Elbow guards, armored vest and a plain old cortex jacket. Now I'm covered with more armor than an LA cop. Nothing fancy, although I did spend time staring wistfully at the $500 Italian leather togs...

All's I need now is knee armor, rainproof pants, some kind of neck protection, and boots.

Oh yes, and a motorcycle. That part of it is...uh, not progressing....

And my muse is lost in the desert. I hope she finds her way out of it soon, because I'm getting frustrated...