Slave Manifesto

I drive a hybrid but I still drive a car. I live life but I'm not alive unless I spend it away. I'm a carpenter but I'm not Jesus Christ. I'm a dreamer but I'm a nightmare to those around me. I recycle but it still ends up as trash somewhere else. I'm a talker when words won't suffice. I'm an atheist but I have a soul. I live in a house but I'm never home. I seek spiritual wealth and end up monetarily poor. I believe in friendship and honor integrity but I still have reservations. I believe in love but have never loved anyone completely for who they are or were. I breathe in oxygen and when I exhale, I pollute carbon dioxide. I can fix other people's problems but the one thing I can’t seem to fix is my own thoughts at the end of a workday. I eat healthy foods and shit out opinions. I feel but I'm not emotional. I tend to be loud but not overtly misleading. I feel stronger but I'm not better. I think of myself as a conscientious consumer but my choice of products is rather careless. I like to have a few drinks after work (nearly everyday of the week) but I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic. I was angry at a girl who used me but I enjoyed letting myself be used. I care enough but not enough to really truly care.

I am a slave and this is my manifesto.

"Life being what it is...a series of intersecting lives and incidents, out of anyone's control...that taxi did not go by, and that driver was momentarily distracted..."

- Benjamin Button

Seasonal Affective (Dis)Order

The winter has left me on an island, marooned all by myself.

I'm rolling along the streets of the 'Heights and its lows. Nothing is 'normal' about it. Cold, bitter cold air tonight. Had to bust out some gloves to keep my hands from freezing. I'm watching clouds pass overhead from the recent storm; so much goddamn rain. It rained for days, nonstop sheets of liquid cold sheerness. I thought it would never end. Kept me inside and isolated, but aided me in fostering this image.

Adams Ave is dark and quiet once the bars let out. In the whir of cold wind I glance down an alleyway; a feral cat strolls on his hunt like a seasoned warrior. He's missing an eye. He has scars throughout his coarse fur and his ears are loaded with holes and nicks from last night's rumble. His survival has proven he's ready for anything the world might throw at him.

The passing street lamps sizzle and fade into discs resembling distant stars as I turn the corner to Park Boulevard. I feel the isolation. I feel the alcohol rolling off the ghosts of the sidewalks, sensing the pulse of the lifeless streets.

I'm falling so far inside myself that the feeling reflects; I turn into the most pathetic, lonely, miserable character the world has to offer...but only for a moment, only at this time of night, do I feel like a phantom.

Summer brings back thoughts of a girl and a house. If I could choose to construct an afterlife for myself I'd reach out and grab that moment from the year.

I leave this thought at the next stoplight, cars are coming...so I say, "Fuck it" out loud and pedal through the crosswalk, gliding to the sloped curb. I stand up on the bike, absorbing the shock in my knees I know the rims cannot bear.

She is a very fragile creature.

Tweed Ride 2010

Tweed Ride 2010 was awesome!

December 11th -

Got up early on Saturday and went out for a quiet ride. I was returning home when I noticed the bike mob rolling opposite my way on Park Blvd. I immediately got cries to, "Come on over!" and "Ride with us!"

I flipped a bitch and ended up rolling through the streets of San Diego with all my fellow Bicycle cultists and the feeling was great. It's amazing how much power there is in numbers and for a short time Saturday afternoon, the streets were ours.

The journey was a 12.6 mile trip through City Heights, beginning and ending at Velo Cult's shop on Fern St in Golden Hills. I had never been to the shop, never met any of the folks there but they really, really loved Tasty.

I received pointers regarding bike safety and repairs as well as stories regarding other people and their bikes.

It was a nice warm day in December as we cruised through Balboa Park into Hillcrest and eventually crossed the Washington St Bridge on it's anniversary that day; 1910.

Awesome vibes! Will most defiantly have to do this again next year! A big thank you to everyone!

Jackass

Acceptance this year...and maybe something more.

I accept there are certain things I can/can't do, things I am tasked with that I know I can never accomplish. No fatalism; NO in fact, this year has been quite an amazing experience.

It seemed summertime was full of a kind of hazy bliss, a time to reflect, discover some new qualities and elements in my own life from the life of others.

Now things have transformed. I've learned to stop chasing cats. Maybe it is time to start focusing on myself...perhaps I was too willing to be there, without first conquering my own mind, problems, goals, etc.

I think my sub-enlightenment reached its zenith sometime back then, in August.

Yet still I draw a blank page...there's nothing here; whiteout conditions. The page blisters my skin as I try to muster a few short words through whatever blizzard occupies this space. So I need to fill a page with a few blank words, need to flush something out...

It's bleak. Someone is looking up at me, a girl, noticing I'm 'here' but I'm not there. I'm tempted to give an answer that shows she only got part of what I was asking. A day with modifiers and exquisite adjectives...self describing, self serving words to describe these words...

The language of her textbook is confusing her, as she stares vaguely at the pages and away from me, wondering what the world would be like if she had superpowers. I wonder what it would be like to sail the open sea.

I’m rubbing my chin down staring up at the popcorn-sealing thinking about its noise-reducing properties…a sigh of release spreads out in the walls and over me, a warm blanket under which to foster some ideas...

The reluctant I staggers on for a minute in this conversation we are having; horrible music is pounding away at the pavement and in the colors of the background. Synesthesia, for short. An entire underground history is holding this story together, if you could say this is any story at all. Nope. No story. No birth or death of anything beautiful, nothing outlandishly tragic…just you, fingers...and you brain.

Hello brain! Augmenter of my dreams, my imagination, my culmination of hopes, the harbinger of ME... which as of now, is running on worn-out bearings; puffing fumes with an intake manifold clogged with pumice... and all the bullshit of the world.

Hold that thought, while I switch out the coffee filter.

Ultimately, I think I need new space, new skin in which to slither around in.

"Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race."

- H. G. Wells

Goodnight My Someone

Haven't been blogging much lately. I think I've needed some time to reprise this cadence cadenza...

Today I moved about the sleepy Sunday streets of San Diego. I slept in all day, woke up late around 4:30pm. The light was fading as soon as I took to the streets. My priorities have been shot for the day.

Fall is setting in. It's an electric experience. The combination of warm days, cool evenings and the brisk air adds a tingle through my central nervous system as I swoop around my route through the metropolis.

Today I feel that there is an endocrinology of elation and despair, a chemistry of mystical insight, and; in life and our relation to the universe, an astrophysics of changing moods.

Time and again we’re faced with the parable of existing as humans, coping with the might of the forces around us…and I see civilization and modernity collapse into a sort of escapism. This idea is symbolically reinforced in the steel frame of this bicycle; the feeling, more than the idea in some ways, of going somewhere, of "getting away." It is in escapism that we begin to lose ourselves; a reminder by the nature which had us as we are; many things today for myself remain aloof.

I miss someone intensely. She's very far away, I may have screwed things up...

But maybe this is the fuel for the fires of a literary motif of something grand, a book, a collection of writings, sketches, and examples entitled, "Blue Machine." It will be the focus of an intense, ongoing project.