Suzi was undamaged except cosmetically. A long strip of road-rash on the right pipe, and a slightly abraded crankcase cover. No levers, fins or anything else was bent or broken. I was lucky.

I still feel like crap, like incompetent, like stupid, and the second helmet and dreams of riding friends places is now pushed far into the background. At least until my knee heals up and I forget the vertical horizon and the cliff gaping under the rear wheel. Never ever ever take a street bike on a dirt road. They ain't like cars. Maybe you can offroad in a Crown Vic but you sure as hell can't offroad in a Suzuki GS1100.

The Air Force Thunderbirds are flying out at Point Mugu this afternoon; I'm going to try and make the show after Linux class (if there is Linux class)

I dumped Suzi into the gravel yesterday. Braked into a turn on a gravel road, hit a bump, the throttle jiggled, and suddenly the back tire was in front of the front tire and the horizon was vertical instead of horizontal and gas was spilling out of the tank and my knees hurt. Prodigious swearing and rapid examination of all body and motorcycle parts ensued while I tried to think what to do.

I don't have time right now to tell the rest of the story.

I'm sitting here in Jobu's apartment listening to the cheery patter of old friends known for four years. The newly-24 is chortling over her beer at the half-intentional antics of our gracious host.

Iron and Wine slides coolly along in the background; wafts of cinnamon float from the oven. Jelen is busy over the apple slices.

It's been a long, long time since I've been to such a chill party.

I love my friends, all of them, but especially the ones right here with me....

I have mixed feelings about motorcycle maintenance. I'm probably not really the person who ought to own a tired old motorcycle with lots of, well, needs. I own a screwdriver, a small vice-grips, a 10mm wrench and a 12mm wrench. While it is amazing how much mileage I can get out of these four tools, it is also amazing how fragile 25-year-old bits of metal are, and how easily their threads are stripped. I have to retrain my automobile-clumsy 15-lb-foot hands to a kinder, gentler, 5-lb-foot touch. I have to think, -Japanese- , and act accordingly.

25-year-old bits of metal are one thing, but 25-year-old bits of WIRE and PLASTIC are an entirely different thing. One can easily replace a nut by a trip to the hardware store; one does not so easily replace a crumbled lightbulb socket. Or disassemble said lightbulb socket without crumbling everything else in the vicinity.

The only reason I survive is the fact that I have access to a tolerably-well-equipped maintenance shop with a good array of tools, place for disposing oil, and availability of D whom I can ask annoying questions.

So, till August, I should be set, but before I leave I better think about investing in some tools...

Why does function follow form whenever I'm trying to figure out the function?

(there's got to be a basis function to start from; why-ever can't I get rid of the importunacy of the form. it blots out the function like a mercury-vapor light.)

the disorganism of which statement demonstrates my point. Disorganism is not a word, which further demonstrates my point.

clearly. Anyway.

Today, I finish organizing literature for my research project, named Anthony. Named after the Wonder-Worker of Padua in hopes that I find what I'm looking for....heh, real simple.

I am convinced that there are some unclear things that ought not to be unclear, and the teachings of the Catholic Church on its own teaching "magisterium" ought not to be unclear. But they are. I love Germans. They invent new languages and hence new heresies.

So it's back to the last point at which they were clear, which I'm judging was probably about 1870 or so, or whenever the first Vatican Council was paused (indefinitely). Here's to hoping I can actually arrive at clarity, and that I will finally conquer form in favor of function.

minutes slide by like years
magnetic fields stretch and grate
intertwining kissing folds
tapping a beer bottle against my knee
staccato touch of toe to toe
minutes buzzing by like insects
chair frames creak in patterned silence
drawling voices merging braking
red light green light changing lanes
shifting dripping steaming cold
minutes dripping on the pavement

It's a lazy spring day and I'm wondering what the clover looks like in the field at home. Probably a lot like the bush mallow looks like in the wastewater disposal field here at school. I feel the sun blanket me in warmth. It's a lot colder at home. But at home there's a smell in the air, a smell of spring - here spring doesn't smell...

Dr. McLean shouts to be heard over the roar of the mill. "Attention please!"
Silence settles over the packed room.

"All theses of the class of 2007 have been turned in to the Dean!"

YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

"Whatever happened to that Tasik dude? He used to publish on this thing every other day. Has he found something better to do, or what?"

"No way man. He's just not the kind of guy to find something better to do. Chances are there just isn't anything bloggable happening in his life, you know, and he's said before that he really hates publishing filler posts."

"Yeah, I don't know, dude. Seems weird."

"Seems weird. Hey did you hear Lonnie bowled a 200 last night?"

I was speaking to a graduate of Notre Dame Architecture program last night and he claimed that "architecture is an art, not a science".

I think he might be right. The principles upon which the "science" of architecture are based are inherently practical. Will it stand up? How much will it cost? How long will it last? How will it fit my lifestyle? What kind of Place for Me will it be? All the rules of proportion are aimed to fulfill the answers to these questions.

Yet from principles there ought to be demonstration. Is there no demonstration in architecture? Is it not to be demonstrated that objectively the most pleasing configuration of a wall is one with an odd number of windows and an even number of buttresses, according to the configuration of the human who has an odd number of openings and an even number of supports?

People are weird. And stupid.

I'm going to go work on my th...

oww.

I liken my thesis to a large, half-carven oaken stump. With claw marks.

I'm going to be a good boy and go work on my thesis....

Writing something poetic would feel really good right now. *shifts keyboard on desk*

Reminds me of when I sit down with a blank piece of paper and a pencil with a subject in front of me waiting to be drawn. And I sit there with pencil poised over the paper. And I look at the pencil, and I look at the paper, and I remember that I have no time to draw right now.

I'm going to go work on my thesis.

It's Saturday!

I'm going to be a good boy and work on my thesis, so I can....

It's Friday!

I'm going to be a good boy and work on my thesis, and get my seminar readings done, so I can get to ride my bike this weekend! (in the rain?)

I love the new chain and sprockets, btw. Tis like getting a new transmission, or shaft drive, or something. I'm enjoying it while it lasts, or 600 miles till the new chain stretches and needs a tighten.

oh, this summer is going to be hell. I can see it coming from five miles away. I think I should find another job that I love better and other people that I love worse.

oh, never mind.

Really.

Shit.

(my profound apologies to all of you who have to put up with my dirty mouthfingers; I try to keep it to a minimum, but it won't go away, and I'm not enough of a poet to work around it. Sorry. Deal with it.)

someone grabs and squeezes the brake on the windlass and I slide

resurrection

the rope soaks in layers of skin

blood is running down my forearms over my shoulders

but I'm saved from the mossy stones

no longer falling no longer moving

now

if only the shreds can begin to climb

slimy hand over slimy hand

Yes, ordinarily I come back from a ride feeling like I'm on top of the world, but today I come back feeling like the world is on top of me.

I can't think. I did something stupid. I don't know exactly what it was. Maybe nothing.

I'm so screwed. What did I do?

what did i do what did you do what do you think you did orange eyes and a growl in the trees run dammit run, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide yes you are going to face consequences this time run run run faster i opened an old wound not far enough i didn't run far enough orange eyes and a growl and i forgot she hunts with the wolf RUN RUN dammit RUN FAST

there is not enough alcohol left in the closet

*grumble* Motorcycles are supposed to cost LESS than cars in maintenance, not more. *grumble*

In the process of arranging for sprocket and chain replacement. There goes all my dreams of a fun semester off-campus spending money. Why, oh for crying out loud why did I not catch this before I bought the bike in November?

(because I was in a hurry)