July 2010 Archives

A few days ago when my -er- friend was here, I took some pictures. I'm not sure he knew why I was doing it, though he allowed it. It was the light.

I'm not often up in the actual morning, and when I am, I'm struck by how different the light is. A few months ago I was visiting a friend on the West Coast, and every time we went for a bike ride, I kept commenting on the light. At any given hour, it seemed to slant or glow or do something that had me mesmerized.

Professional photographers always talk about light, and I've always assumed they were talking shop - it sounds so technical. But I think it may be more that they're in love with light - how it changes the way everything looks from moment to moment, like those paintings Monet did - the same scene, over and over again, at different times of day.

I have my own experiences like that. Not just of how the light changes, but how the traffic changes, and how the air smells different, and how all of that makes it seem like I'm seeing different sides of a personality. The park, the path, the deep-city streets. These places are not the same at 3am as they are at 3pm.

At 3am, there is a basketball game - 12 people, playing for real, on an unlighted court.

You would never know that if you weren't riding by. I felt privileged to see it.

In her 43rd year, she took a lover seventeen years her junior, learned to play the field, became adept at smoking joints, and got in trouble with the IRS.

Would you like that character, if you were reading her in a novel?

I was just reading a post by another blogger, and realized it isn't just me who's being introduced to herself in her 40s. I had a flash the other day where I looked at myself, where I was and whom I was with, and marveled that this is my life now. You don't think, when you're twenty, that your life in middle age will be anything to write home about. You also don't think, I expect, that you'll still be very much discovering yourself.

I think now that I may be discovering myself forever. In that last moment of breath, I may have a little flash of insight where something unfolds and I want to jump off and explore it. Why not, after all? It happens all the time now.

I only hope I'll still be riding my bike.

I'm not trying to be quiet, I swear I'm not. It's only that I am rushing from thing to thing, and composing little fragments in my head while I'm on the bike, or while I'm falling asleep half-thinking about the old mystery novel I'm reading, whose pages are on the verge of crumbling but whose words still feel fresh.

And because we lack the technology for direct brain-to-blog transfer, there they sit, little postlets, flitting about in the nether regions of my brain, tangled up in Lord Peter Wimsey's long legs.

It's 3:17 am, and I like writing (or doing practically anything) at 3:17 am. Anything I put my mind to seems filled with extra juice in those precious "wee" hours. I have never been able to adequately explain why I seek out the deep night, though people who don't know me often ask, once they find out.

I usually say something like, "It's quiet. I have the world to myself." Neither of which is exactly true, nor is it the whole reason.

I have this feeling, you see, that it's those hours that lend themselves to magic. Perhaps because those are the hours in which the rest of the world dreams, and dreams hard. I prefer to use that dream-time for conscious thought; maybe I sense that the wider possibilities of dream-worlds cling to those hours, and invest whatever I'm working on with extra shine.

Yeah, I like the pixie dust. What can I say?

I'll tell you this - I had an unusual experience recently, which, without giving too much detail, involved being in a slightly altered state. And since then I find that I can, at will, conjure up some of the perceptions that made it special.

Strangely, this ability is related to why I don't normally seek out altered states. Make that artificially altered states - we all know how I feel about endorphins.

I've always felt, simply put, that my brain was quite interesting enough, thank you, and didn't need artificial enhancement.

I still think that's true. What I also think is that a little light artificial enhancement* can be interesting, not just in the moment, but later. I can remember how things looked or felt, and in a sense, those doors of perception (to borrow from Blake) are still open to me. This is the magic of my brain. It goes so easily to Alice in Wonderland.

Reading this over, it occurs to me that this is what it is to be an artist. It's not news to me, but I'll say it anyway. You spend your life - as much of it as you can manage - out on the border between fantasy and reality, between awake and asleep. It's like sleeping in a tree.

*Before you ask, I wasn't doing hallucinogens. It takes so very little to entertain me.

Yeah, um, right.

I can't even begin to tell you about my week, so I won't try. Let's just say that several of my ideas have been confirmed, and a few others shaken up.

a) Do not, repeat, do NOT sleep with anyone on the first date. Confirmed.
b) Do not alter one's mental state by chemical means. Shaken up, busted, then slightly confirmed again. Which means the jury is somewhat out and further (but more moderate) testing is required.
c) The one you want is the one you want. Confirmed.
d) You cannot have the one you want, at least not in the quantity that you want. So, then what? No fracking idea.
e) Lots of playing with boys and partying with -um- other boys = not getting enough (or even any) work done. Confirmed.
f) I hate saddle sores. Confirmed, goddamnitalltohell.
g) Am I really that pretty, holy crap, why am I having so much trouble with boys? Oh, right. Because the one who's giving me the most trouble is just as pretty as I am. Sigh.

I guess that about covers it.

Here we are, at the intersection of weird and sad. Getting over it (it being everything) is visible in the distance, but they're uphill miles.

I'm hungry and I just ate, which is true both physically and metaphorically.

I'm sitting next to the window with the herb plants and today someone offered me a kitten with my haircut. I had to decline, citing Kitwich's continued sanity. I doubt she'd maul it or anything, but I also doubt she'd forgive me for taking away her only-child status. And I have some sympathy with that position.

I just looked over at her, stretched out on the rug looking both quizzical (What do you want? Are you asking me if I want the a/c back on? Because the answer is yes) and content. Cats usually look content. They're either very bored, or not very smart, or far wiser than we are, and it's impossible to tell which.

She's a rather brilliant cross-species communicator, but even so I have trouble telling what she's thinking when she looks at me like that. Inscrutable and imperturbable.

There was a thing - a terrible thing - that happened a few days ago, and I'm having some repercussions from it. The boy who refuses to get the hell out of my head was there, and was spectacularly unhelpful, and I went home and couldn't sleep. And then the next day I ran away and did something that might have been foolhardy (the jury is still out; I keep hoping no harm was done, but it didn't feel right either). And now I have a date with a third.

I am guardedly a little excited about the date with the third, though I really oughtn't to be, since the odds are slim with these things. It would be nice if it worked out well. It would, in fact, go a long way toward solving a few of my current difficulties. Shannon's going to tell me I'm being tantalizing again, but I expect you can all read between the lines.

I often have a post going in my head while riding, but when I get home it's gone, superseded (usually) by the need to eat.

Some nights I wish I could show you what I'm seeing. There's a section of the park that looks like Where the Wild Things Are.

There are bats diving overhead, sometimes quite close. I've been told we have them to thank for the relatively low mosquito count. Another reason to like them.

They fly rather like butterflies, I always think. Giant brown leathery butterflies. Tim Burton butterflies.

I keep waking up and being delighted to remember that it's Tour de France time, and I get to start my day with Phil Liggett's inimitable voice. There's something special about Phil, and it's rather magical to hear him every day.

I haven't heard from the boys in weeks, and I'm adjusting. I've done some riding with other people and a lot of riding solo, and what I've found is that I actually adore riding by myself. I really dislike the pressure that I've begun to sense from other cyclists, to ride more aggressively, to "kill it" on the hill, etc. I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised that people who race would exhibit a competitive streak in social riding, but I'm still annoyed by it.

I was talking to Boywich about it, and he was (as he so often is) clear and supportive on the subject. The thing is, my chief goal is always to be able to keep riding. That means: a) avoiding accidents (as much as possible), and b) not injuring my knees by pushing too hard in certain situations.

Add to that that I'm at least 10 years older than most of the people I ride with, and you end up with a situation where it's often a relief to simply be alone and ride the way I want to.

I don't know whether it's simply on my mind lately or that I've only recently started to see it, but a lot of my friends have a judgmental streak - about what people eat, about the way they ride. I recently started eating a little bit of meat, and I've kept that information to myself for the most part. Several of my friends are what I think of as judgmental vegans, and I just don't want to deal with their reactions to it.

I have my own reasons for eating what I eat, and I don't feel that it's anybody's business. But I also don't feel like being on the receiving end of their horror. It's a turkey sandwich. Get the fuck over it.

I was watching a documentary last night, which followed a long and arduous journey through a wide variety of cultures, and the travelers simply ate whatever they could find, and they made no bones about it. They were, by and large, delighted by the people they met - many of whom welcomed them into their homes. And afterwards, when they talked about what they liked most about the journey, it was the people, the chance to just hang out with people whose lives and ideas were completely unknown to them. They found some kind of harmony in that, and they felt they'd learned a lot.

I suppose this all sounds simplistic, but I find that I'm chafing against that oddly persistent human desire for homogeneity - that desperate need to make everyone think and act just like you.

I wish I'd taken pictures tonight. I was on a roof, looking at the skyline - the Empire State lit redwhiteandblue, bridges strung with lights, the water. Behind the jagged outline of buildings a string of matching fireworks, 6 I think, were exploding into colors.

There were smiley-face fireworks (dorky), planet fireworks (Saturn, with a ring), big puffball fireworks that looked for all the world like dandelions gone to seed (or sea urchins). There were jellyfish fireworks and fizzy-pop red ones, and ones that looked like Christmas tree lights which didn't so much explode as hang there for a few moments and then slide down like leaves off a tree.

It would have made a great photograph, even if the camera couldn't (as I'd convinced myself when I decided against bringing it) capture them very well.

By anybody's standards it was a remarkable sight - the skyline added so much - and it struck me as crazy that it took so little doing to get there. It was a short ride to a friend's house, up a flight of stairs or two, and voila - big famous spectacle.

That's the thing about living here - you get so saturated with the difficulties of it, and the drudgeries, that you hardly notice where you are. It's more like the city becomes a part of you - it's seeped into your pores, and like most things that live in your pores, it's pretty unpleasant much of the time.

You ignore it, or you deal with it as best you can, and if once in a while you look over at the Statue of Liberty while you're crossing the bridge, well, that's pretty, you think. And it still doesn't make an impact. Because it's part of your life.

People fly thousands of miles to see that - they drink it in like some fabulous rare cocktail, and for you, because it's running out of the tap, it's just There. Familiar landscape. Hey, Liberty, Babe. What's shakin'? How you doin'? Nice dress.