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She put a gun in my face.
And cocked it?
Yeah.
You've come back from worse.
(Scene between these two)

Several friends, to me: Hey, why don't you stay off that ankle for a while longer?

I do everything the hard way. People who know me well know this about me, occasionally nudge me about it, and then back off. Because they know I am not going to listen.

When I was a kid we went on a lot of nature walks, and I remember the park rangers telling us we had a choice back up the mountain - the ranger way or the candy way.

The ranger way, obviously, was straight up the steep slope. The candy way was a gentler, probably safer, traverse. Either way you'd get to the same place. I'm not sure that rule holds as true in life. I think when you take the ranger way, you end up someplace different.

The ranger way has its drawbacks. It's lonely. It can be scary. The park has a spooky element to it around midnight. You don't want to stop.

But if you don't take these risks, you miss out on the low-hanging mist with its visible edges. You miss out on the loud crickets and the solo horn player and the figures appearing suddenly, vaguely threatening shadows, coming out of the trees and onto the road.

I could sit home. I could watch endless TV and eat too many snacks and pine for the right company. I could ice my ankle and stay off it and risk nothing.

No, I couldn't. I really couldn't.

Life for me is a soft tug-of-war between solitude and sociability. I've heard it said that if one is recharged by being around others, one is an extrovert, and if one is recharged by being alone, one is an introvert.

I guess I'm half and half.

I had the loveliest day yesterday, perhaps because it contained both good alone-time and good together-time. The first part of the day was a slow curve into wakefulness. I don't like to leap into consciousness. My friend's new baby always wakes up cranky, as if the process of moving from one state of being to the next is distressing, and I feel the same way.

It takes some hours. The cat gets fed while I'm still mostly asleep and can barely walk because my calves have tightened themselves into rubber bands overnight. Then there's the snoozing. Then there's the waking up from a tangled dream. Then there's stumbling around making coffee. Then puttering and chatting with Kitwich.

Then I hung about musing gently about where I'd ride.

Then a sudden burst of packing and pumping (air), and I was off, rolling gently toward Brighton Beach. It's not always magical at Brighton, but when it is, it really is.

There were the Russian elderly, with their intensely characteristic faces. There were the young people playing volleyball in their bright colors, so handsome they looked like Baywatch East.

Every direction I turned my camera there was a short story unfolding, most of them narrated in Russian. I loved the two ladies on the bench - one with cherry-icee hair and one with bright lavender.

I asked this couple for permission to take their picture and they wanted to see how it came out. "Look how cute you are!" I said, handing them the camera. They were snuggling on that bench like teenagers.

There were two guys walking together, pulling a lot of beach equipment behind them - chairs and umbrellas and surfboards - the white one was deeply sunburnt and his friend was too dark-skinned to show any sign of sun. Ebony and Ivory go to the Beach, I thought.

Later, riding home, the friend I'd arranged to meet called and invited me over for dinner. We went out for beer, to a new bar (I'd been there once before and liked it), and there was plenty of room for us to sit, and just enough people for it to feel like we were Out.

She got tipsy, and I had some of that good stout, and we talked about life and art and the difficulties of managing both of those together. There was a bike rack out front, and a bouncer keeping an eye, and it felt so welcoming. We thanked him when we left, and he gave us a brilliant smile.

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.

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.

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 tried to write a post yesterday, but my server was down. Then I tried to tweet tonight, but the World Cup had apparently broken the living daylights out of Twitter (it's still limping a bit).

All I was gonna do was write you a little list of stray thoughts as they occurred to me. I suppose I could still do that.

My mileage has increased, and with it my appetite. I can no longer manage on 5 meals a day. Think I'm kidding? Spend a day with me. And bring your wallet.

I have: a) a tan that ends mid-thigh, and b) little callouses on my palm below my second and third fingers.

The cat has a new trick whereby she climbs into my lap, flops herself onto my torso (about 60% of which real estate she takes up), and lolls her head into my chest, while gazing soulfully into my eyes. What is she, a frickin' Harlequin romance novel?

I have taken to riding to a beach nearly every weekend, just to get away from the human populace. It is soothing. And then I ride to a honky tonk beach, to be amused by the human populace. I'd tell you part of a conversation my friends and I overheard at the latter last weekend, but it is unprintable. So was her outfit.

My baby sister turned 40 this year, and a couple of days ago a young man from the Internet asked me if I'd consider dating a guy in his mid-20s. Given that a man of that exact age had just left my bed, I had to answer in the affirmative. I suppose that sounds like bragging.

It's occurred to me recently that - until now - I'd never actually let myself consider what I want from men. So I gave that some thought. I don't have an exact answer, but I have some ideas about what I don't want, and that is a start.

I've started to think of myself as a bachelor. I've started to think that being single by choice is not the same as being celibate. It's been an interesting week.

PS. The birds are singing and that was my last lightbulb.

I sometimes wonder about the impressions we make on each other. I realize the impact of a human life is about as lasting as a footprint in the sand.

Maybe it lasts long enough for the birds to notice, maybe not, but it seems to me that most of what goes on between two people happens below the surface, at the level that isn't talked about - or can't be.

I remember that scene in Moonstruck, where Cher is telling Nicholas Cage that the big part of him has no words, that it's a wolf, and that it does what it has to do between him and him.

I sometimes think it would be better if we simply interacted with each other that way. No words, no interpretations, just action and responding action.

I took a lot of photos this weekend, with one thing and another. They'll likely be popping up in bits over the next few days. I haven't been posting much because I just don't have that much that I feel like sharing. I'm busy with work. I'm adjusting to the probable end of an affair with someone I rather liked. I was very angry for a few weeks.

I'm feeling a little better. I'm trying to see being asked out by online people as a good thing, with mixed results.

I don't think any of them are cute enough. I never do, with online people. Maybe I just think the Internet is an ugly place.

I've never been a fan of computer art. I prefer the feel and smell and texture of real-world things.

I like the smell of linseed oil. I like the smell of male sweat (on the right guys). I like getting my legs dirty. I picked up a shell on the beach and it had a hole in it, and I am looking for the right string to wear it.

My cat makes a triangle shape when she sleeps in this pillow, and it's funny because she has so many triangles in her face and head to begin with. I wonder if she likes Euclid. She does seem to enjoy watching astronomy on TV. We were learning about neutrinos and gamma rays. "Gamma rays, Kitwich! Gamma rays." She looked interested.

He: It's clear that you like men. But you never keep any of them for very long.
She: Men make women messy.
He: Here's to the fear of being trapped.
(from The Thomas Crown Affair)

She: It's too bad you couldn't have avoided this.
Me: What? Not get involved after he warned me?
She: Yes.
Me: He was just what I wanted.

Sensing a pattern?

Yeah, sure. That don't make it resistible or even something I much want to change at the moment. It serves its purpose. That being to keep me at arms' length. I have my reasons.

But it hurts, you say?

Well, you are talking to a woman whose legs are permanently bruised, scraped, skinned, and sometimes even rug-burned (yes, for that reason).

I have a certain tolerance. Make that resilience. I may not like pain all that much, but I sure do bounce back from it like a Weeble on steroids.

So I'm in that state where I'm drinking espresso at 8:41 pm and stopping in the midst of my 40-mile jaunt to visit a handsome fellow of my previous acquaintance (yes, like that) for a little free-form flirting, just to juice me up again, and then I get back on the bike and ride the rest of the way home dartin' and a swoopin'.

Finish up some work, have a brief bossy little meeting (I was the one being bossy, which is odd for me, but I was still in traffic mode), eat a clementine, blah blah blah. This is how we get on with life, folks, we just get on.

We move, we fly, we get pissed off and decide we deserve better; we recognize that we don't actually want to get too much closer than that and so we scan the horizon for another (un)suitable boy, and there aren't any, so we learn to play bocce ball and win our first-ever game, because, well, we are really quite deft at certain things. Rolling balls in uncertain directions over chalk apparently being one of them.

I've been a M*A*S*H* watcher for as long as I can remember. So long that I am pretty sure I've really seen every episode they ever made, most of them repeatedly.

There was a sense the whole time, especially toward the end, that everyone was holding their collective breaths till peacetime, and that when it came, something special was going to happen with Hawkeye. What it was, no one knew, least of all Hawkeye. But I never quite believed him when he claimed he would simply exult, party, speed away in gleeful, unencumbered relief.

I felt that he'd never be able to get away from what those years had done to him, and that he'd feel like he was missing a limb to be parted from those friends, those comrades in his brutal, incessant fight against death.

By the time the end came, I was proven righter than I really would have liked.

He'd broken down and was in an asylum trying to collect enough pieces of himself to be put back into his M*A*S*H* unit. He was frail, something he'd never shown evidence of before, even in those moments where he'd show some pain.

He did make it out, of the asylum, and then out of Korea, but we weren't sure at all how he was going to be, afterward. And I suppose that is only right. What we really wanted to see, which was never (of course) going to happen, was him and BJ flying away together, brothers. Because we knew that even in his Maine paradise Hawkeye was going to feel like he'd lost his twin.

I bring this up because I recently found myself making a large leap towards something I've always wanted to do. Not just something, the thing. And I find that, like Hawkeye, I'm not able to simply exult, party, and speed toward it in gleeful unencumbered relief.

Too much has gone before, perhaps. It's been too long a battle, and I am not certain if I still possess the ability to believe in it, to take it in. I'm damn well going to try, because I do believe (or 85% of my self does) that I deserve to have it, to do and be what and who I want to be.

But the battlescars are not insubstantial, and they are not pretty.

I have no idea what to say, other than that I have an amazing opportunity, for which I must write a proposal, and I am having the worst time of it.

I think it's because it's something I want so badly, and as some of you know, I am sorely unaccustomed to getting what I want.

It's crucial for me to believe that I deserve it, and I'm getting better at that, but the difficulty I've been having writing this thing suggests that there's still work to be done on that score.

I am not sure what to do to break the ice. It's like a scrim in my brain, between me, where I currently am in life, and this thing that I've wanted all my life.

I tried taking a day off and going someplace pretty.

I tried drinking a beer (or three).

I tried getting outta the house and riding for a bit.

I tried various forms of play and socializing.

I tried downtime alone.

I tried parking myself at the altar of the laptop and sacrificing sheepguts.

I tried overeating, two days in a row (ugh).

I tried knitting.

I tried plowing through it in extra-rough, downright corrugated draft form.

Nope. Nothing's working. Nothing's working and I have a scant 18 hours left. Oy.

Sometimes when you have a lot of work to do, your body just takes over and makes you play instead.

Today was one of those days. I got on my bike with only a vague destination in mind, and found myself just following my feelings (like Luke).

The feelings apparently wanted to meet up with a cute boy and ride to Coney Island.

Nice choice.

The last time I took pics at Coney, I had the Nikon with me, and the results were of the prize-winning variety. Really, really nice shots.

This time, it was just coming on dusk as we arrived, and we first had to entertain ourselves by riding the scary old rollercoaster (primarily scary for me, as I am not the greatest coaster rider, and this one is a whiplash-fest).

So by the time I got my little dinghy out there wasn't much natural light to speak of.

And yet, I really like the results of the neon plus greying sky.

There's something about Coney Island that is hard to describe. It's a little seedy and a little gleeful and a little hokey and a little slice of the past.

You look at it, at those lights on the Wonder Wheel, and something twists a little in your gut, and you think, now there is something.

It's not quite like anywhere else, and you can understand how people get nostalgic about it.

It's the kind of place that makes you nostalgic the first time you go there, for a past that was never yours to begin with.

PS. Click for bigger.