So I am an idealist who hates idealism; a practical man who hates the blindness of pragmatism, a poor hungry confused child who holds the stone in both hands while before him stands the cold reality that he is on his own if he wants to eat.

It has been a while, and now in the thick of things I stumble across my old creativity and wonder where the voices got buried.

Oh, I know where they got buried, and how; I buried them. For a good reason. I'm not an angsty teenager anymore, I tell myself; blogging is something that people did before twitter was invented and I'm really much too busy for this nonsense.

But I was busy even then, and the voices existed for a reason and that reason was to remind me that maybe my busy life is nonsense. Maybe the tight eyeballs, small meals, and lack of sleep is nonsense. Why do we do it? More importantly, why do we persist and bring that nonsense to the level we do?

Maybe it's time to thaw the zombie, folks.

Paper clip hearts in a chain to the moon

Paper clip hugs sweep me round the room

Paper clip love whispers a tune

With paper clip kisses under stars in bloom

Paper clip hearts in my pocket at night

Paper clip hugs round my waist hold me tight

Paper clip love round my heart glows bright

With paper clip kisses in the morning light

CLOSED until further notice

"I don't want this blog to become one of those zombie blogs that leave off at a post about an anticipated journey" a rough paraphrase of some wise words by Doug Klassen, whose blog just entered the Death Scroll which has become my collection of links to other people's blogs.

Nobody's really writing any more. Not even Toque, who, poet that he is, could be depended upon to contribute something at least every other month.

The Little Lost Soldier Girl marches on with a post now and then, and I advise all of you to go read and comment.

Jaina is still posting fitness test results on her other blog.

But nobody else is showing any signs of movement. I guess blogs have gone out of fashion or my contemporaries have simply moved on fitter, happier and more productive lives.

Anyway, this is an awkward prelude to the main announcement: I'm going bye-bye for a while. I'm joining the Scroll of the Dead. I'm going to leave this blog up, at least for now; but my writing is done. My life is an unbloggable blur of color, motion and flying objects. I simply have far too much on my plate to reflect on, and to turn this blog into a play-by-play account of my daily activities would be to destroy the reflective nature of my writing.

So, until later, let this zombie be put into deep freeze.

Is there any such thing as complaining that isn't whiny? Isn't there some objective, completely justified way to say Why Me God? It would seem not, for we are all servants and the servant may not expect to be treated better than the Master. And the Master suffered it all. Heartbreak, betrayal, lies, rejection, weakness, confusion, pain, abandonment - by His own Father, no less.

"...this is the world, this is the world, we live in /"

"it's not the one we choose, but its the one we're given / "

- Sea Wolf

What am I missing? What drove the Master through his dark night of despair up there on that rocky hill? Where can I get a piece of that? (Are pieces of that even available to be had, ha) I can't find a piece of that because I'm only a little one I can't see the whole picture, and the picture will never make sense to me.

I live in this world that my grandparents made a mess of, and now I have to clean up that mess without making it even more of a mess for my own grandchildren. The flood of humanism that engulfed my country after the Second World War has inundated all social structure and mores; destroyed all religions; overturned all barriers, given birth to monsters from the deeps. The building of houses of cards on credit, animal sex, the burial of the tablets of natural law under liberty, goddamn liberty.

My world must be rebuilt a stone upon a stone. And I must rebuild it, for my betters and superiors will not. Perhaps they cannot. Perhaps they are too poisoned by the flood. I must take these stones from the stiffening hands of my parents, whose sole calling it was to merely HOLD them for me, and begin a task that I will never see the fruits of...

i am not worthy
to hear you breathe
to feel your trust
to touch your feet

i am not worthy
to see the smile
your devotion brings
to thorny trial

i am not worthy
to be loved by you
of the word and service
of your heart so true

i am not worthy
to plumb the deep
your endless ocean
washes me clean

For Ariel

the traffic is stuck
the headlights glare
red curls in the window
a patient green stare

we live on the freeways
in the salt of the sea
daisies and bicycles
eucalyptus trees

She stands in the sand
wind tumbling her hair
a rose in one hand
casting petals to the air

There is no end
to the ocean's flow
nothing but the bend
of the beach house row

Six of us clustered around the oily rag spread on the pavement; Toque, James, and the kid. Dusk had fallen deeply and Toque had his car pulled up to the corner, the headlights illuminating the bank of four motorcycle carburetors lying on the rag. James fiddled with the mixture screws, mumbling through his cigarette. "you're bike is gonna run so much better man, so much better when we get this cleaned up. It'll be like night and f---ing day." The conversation drifted to off-roading, and then eventually tapered off to silence.

"I love motorcycles man, I love 'em." James spoke what we were all thinking. Simplicity, purity, camaraderie in the challenge of keeping them running. It doesn't take much. Here we are tuning up the carburetors on the kid's GS750 in a church parking lot with two flathead screwdrivers, some slivers of coathanger wire, and an evening breeze filtering through the eucalyptus trees. And enough beer to float a boat. No, it's more about the enthusiasm, with one experienced bicycle mechanic chewing on a cigarette and Toque digging through his toolbag. Here's that pair of pliers. We're all here sitting around here like cowboys around a fire, cleaning their tack, in the middle of the desert. We're all sitting around this oily rag staring into the dying glow of the headlight beams while James performs his voodoo magic on this mistuned bank of carbs.

I'm gonna miss this kinda thing. The beer, the pliers, the cigarettes, the jumbled tool bag, the furrowed foreheads in the headlight beams. I'm gonna miss it...

why can't I write about her? Is there too much to say? All the poetry in the world won't suffice. I've lost the wolf, the orange eyes are now a page in my past, a dusty jpg on a rewritable CD.

No words seem to be necessary. This is too real, too scary, too sacred and too confusing...I'm so awed and so challenged...

"Call it."

- Chigurh, No Country for Old Men

Oh, no. Noooooo.....

it's funny how life moves on, taking you with it.

I'm a reluctant prophet, but the future holds four wheels. The future IS four wheels. And a trunk. And maybe, probably, a roof.

But there will always be room in the carport for the old way of life. There will always be a need to save gasoline on the daily commute to work. And the blue V-Strom is paid for, fits me like a new leather glove and is the only thing in my life that doesn't give me problems...

stop! stop it! crack, damn you! crack a damn smile!

the traffic is stuck

an your not movin anywhere

ya thought you found a friend

to take you outta this place

....

it's a beautiful day

....

don't let it get away

on the road

but you got no destination

....

you've been all over

it's been all over you

it's a beautiful day....

- U2

Dr. Thomas Dillon, President of Thomas Aquinas College.

RIP, April 15th 2009

A hero of mine.

+

Between the hours of nine a.m. and twelve p.m. today I feel as if my universe has shifted, that there are a few new colors in the spectrum, and that my life is about to change forever.

We'll see if this pans out, but the storm of intuition is overwhelming. And this storm is coming from the outside, I am convinced.

Quote from the Rule of St Benedict for April 15th: "To fly from vainglory".

I give God thanks for all the beautiful gifts He has given me. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.

I'd forgotten something, which I didn't remember until I pulled off the road on the way back from Pine Mountain.  The overrun extended a bit out into midair, a corner cliff projected into space.  I could see the whole valley from there, the deserted ribbon of pavement winding itself down, down and around into the canyons of the Sespe Wilderness.  The sun was setting and the valley bathed in yellow haze.  I had to smile.  My mind was clear of all the detritus that city-bound life had filled it with; my reflexes fresh and sharp from fifteen miles of gravel-and-sand strewn pavement and cold gusty winds.  I couldn't remember what led me out here, but now that I was out here, it sure felt good.  It felt good to wrap the v-twin out to something north of 7,000 rpm.  It felt good to grind off another layer of rubber from the toes of my boots.  (The Pirelli Scorpion is definitely the tire to get next time, by the way.  I think I have a winner.  Proper tip-in, proper progressive stick).  It felt good to play sportbike for a while and remind myself that some day I will upgrade the suspension.

Reflexes are strange things.  You train yourself to react to the corner, to the rocks and branches and tumbleweed and whatever appears round the bend.  But you sit above your reflexes, supervising them, guiding them, seeking to construct a flow from *brake*, *downshift* *roll on*, *roll off again*  There is a definite flow, but like life it is always changing shape.  The perfect riding line is a myth, a spectre, always changing always leading you on.  In your pursuit you lose everything else in the rearview mirror and if you're lucky you'll remember only what was important...

I ought to update this thing every once in a while.

But like an old car wrapped in plastic and left in the backyard, I expect to forget about my blog except on those rare occasions I feel impelled to say something.  And those occasions have become pretty rare.  I guess that means that I am doing rather than saying; and doing is good.

I called darii on Saturday; we talked movies for a while and at the end of the talk I said something to the effect of "screw it, I'm coming up there and we're going to go watch Coraline".  And I did.

I threw a few things into a backpack, swung it into the tailcase, spent a minute or two fiddling with my rain pants, and took off into the gray evening (it's gonna rain) without a second thought.  I kinda miss just taking off halfway across the state just at random; I have too many rationalizations these days to justify such harebrained action.

Three hours later I was up at the house, and we were laughing and drinking and messing about just like old times.  It was good.  We hit up a 10 pm showing of the movie and it was the first time I'd ever been in an empty theater with one friend.  We took full advantage of the opportunity to talk, loudly and irreverently, throughout the whole weird movie.

Yeah, I miss doing stuff of this ilk.  You get old, you get sane, and life just isn't fun anymore...

Large fusion reaction in western sky blotting out all visible objects with its overpowering radiance. Heavy traffic emerging from the center of the inferno, whipping by on either side. Squinting doesn't help see stuff.  Curses, curses on picking this time of day, or night.  There is supposed to be an intersection coming up here somewhere but be damned if I can see it.  Oh.  There's the barber shop off to the right.  Intersection should be right here.  Should...be....

Red light = 1.

Motorcyclist = 0.

Red light = 1.  A long honk lashes the air.

Motorcyclist = WTF.  Glances at the mirrors. Burnt retinas make out the receding glow of a red traffic signal.  Not cool. People die doing stuff like that.  Death by inattention, it's called.  So ladies and gents, wake up if you want to live, yeah?

(and sunglasses can help with that sometimes too)

Ventura is so beautiful at night from that little turnoff of Foothill where I didn't dare stay more than five minutes with my lights shut down and visor open.  Too much traffic. Some passing meddler would call me in..."I'm seeing some suspicious activity by the avocado orchard, yeah it's a biker just sittin' there, lights are all off, must be waitin' to meet somebody"

I'm in no mood to deal with inquisitive cops right now....no mood at all...

beautiful and the stars are out and it's ice cold, the aloe are coated with frost...

It is late at night, and the world is a horrible place full of panic.  I should go for a motorcycle ride to nowhere.  They can't follow me or find me there, as long as I keep moving, as long as I keep the brights on....Where?  Which nowhere?

*grasps helmet*

Streams of water dribble from the crack in the roof edge; the silent patter of rain trickles into the gutter and washes out of sight. (Dammit for not waking up at exactly the right time! Why did she have to leave early today?!) I work the cover off the bike, one corner at a time, helmet and sticky gloves in the other hand. (Should have wiped all that excess mink oil off these). The helmet goes on the seat, and I squeakily bend down to unlatch the padlock from the rear wheel and straighten up, vinyl stretching and squeaking everywhere. Cold air washes through the carport, cold air smelling of damp citrus leaves. (I hate wearing all this vinyl. hate it. but it keeps me dry, so I shant' complain). I pick up the helmet and shove it down over my face *flthlppp* snapping the visor closed like an astronaut about to perform a spacewalk. Which, in some removed sense, I am. The wet atmosphere is hostile to core temperature and early morning consciousness.

I glance briefly at the clean motorcycle, soon to become muddy and dirty, and then slide over the seat, squeaking. We'll see how good the new Scorpion S/T is in the wet and nasty. I back over the gutter and the little waterfall hits me in the back of the neck, inducing shivers. Have I never mentioned that I am NOT a fan of riding in the rain. If I were in Oregon I would hate my life, for sure....