Mother’s Day Motorbike

Today in March of 2017 is the first time I rode a motorcycle since I crashed one real good in April of 2016.

Funny how there is no life or death or bliss or pain that can measure the pleasure found on the back of a motorbike. Funny.

My mother’s birthday 20 days before her death day, two weeks after my brother’s suicide left us all in dark dismay. I’ll never leave you broken that way, never leave you unless you want it that way.

Ten grand and I can make you understand and we’ll ride until there’s nothing left of land.

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Monday The 13th

Remember when you were the only one to approach me on my first day of 2nd grade?

Remember when we went to see Raiders of the Lost Ark in the theater like, 7 or 8 times?

Remember when your parents got you all the best GI Joe stuff for Christmas?

Remember when Like A Virgin and Stray Cat Strut possessed you?

Remember when you were the closest thing to a sibling I ever knew?

Remember when we stole handfuls of Jolly Ranchers and Bazooka gum from the 7-Eleven and then played Gauntlet in the corner until all of our lunch money was finally dumped into that machine? Karate Champ and Tron also sat inside that store and they both gobbled up nearly all of our filthy lucre.

Remember when we actually had girlfriends in the 6th grade?

Remember when you had your dad’s little mustang then that badass black Honda Prelude then the Mitsubishi Eclipse, and then the Acura? Though my favorite was the 5.0, hands down.

Remember how you would drive like a damn maniac up and down Beaverton Hillsdale Highway?

Remember when we were the best of friends, bound by genealogy and our desire for pure escapism?

Remember when you were tailgating so bad that 2 different drivers turned around to flip you off in the same day? To your incredible disbelief, I might add. I wasn’t surprised in the least. 

Remember when we used to watch X-Files every Sunday night?

Remember our laughter and frustration? How it would either bind us or break us? Burn us or make us?

Remember how you showed me how to inhale Camels behind the convenience store?

Remember how your basement was a den of debauchery and how your older brother would supply us but also torture us with his assholishness?

Remember getting older than teenagers and realizing the world wasn’t just some playground where we could just play through until recess was over?

Remember that one day when someone found your shoe stuck in the brush along the railing of the Vista Avenue Viaduct?

Remember that one day I got a call from my favorite little sister crying into the phone that you were dead?

Remember your wonderful family and life that was apparently staggeringly dark and lonely?

Remember that day when we all became staggeringly dark and lonely because you leapt into the nighttime skyline on your way home from work?

Remember the party I threw at my house for you because your parents didn’t recognize suicide as a reason to celebrate your beauty, laughter and significance?

Remember how confused, guilty and wrecked everyone was while trying to party and lie to ourselves that it was all going to be ok?

I remember it like it was today.

Because it was today.

But today we’ve all soldiered on in both your honor and our regret. We’ve all gotten on with our business while you still linger in our heads, still floating above Jefferson Street and permeating our dreams the day before Valentine’s Day.

Autodieography

– visiting dead uncles still attached by technology, distancing yet listening, detached from my mom’s oncology –

This unruly universe has a razor on which its decisions are made. Sometimes it chooses a sudden, delicate yet brash conception that wails into this world hungry, wet and magnificent, other times it’s a quick and brutal plucking of our family from our unwitting grips, leaving us humble, dizzy and vengeful.

We succeed. We own. We lose. We teach. We work. We enjoy. We die. 

There is no reasoning with a razor, only the awareness that such an edge exists. Like a horse not quite broken or a lover not yet trusted, its natural action is one that somehow always makes sense regardless of its seeming indifference. 

Mom In A Camry

These new hills, corners, traffic controls and street dynamics are both intriguing and fearsome. My new neighborhood in Portland’s southwest hills are no laughing matter when it comes to vying for position and knowing exactly when to lean, when to yield, and when to open it up.

I took a short sweeper yesterday on the way to work and still relatively unfamiliar with the terrain, I dipped alongside and passed a woman driving her sleek, tinted Camry. I thought to myself that if I happen to low side because of these wet leaves or morning frost, this lady during her commute may just kill some idiot on his motorcycle.

Lose-lose situation for everyone.

Despite the real life fear of collisions or lay downs, these twisting, forested roads are like hard candy, single-laned Novocaine and bliss wrapped in violent revolutions of pistons and gross, unbroken horsepower. Mysteriously but helplessly fueling the greasy lust of a rider who relentlessly chases some yellow line that leads to an imaginary finish.

Why or wherever that may be.

45 Years Ago Today

Beastie Boys, Rage Against The Machine, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix.

All else is just music. Background. Filler. These four saved my sanity and the streets of this town by allowing me to vent, reminisce, dream and plot and everyone should recognize the wonderful magnitude of influence of these four musical acts.

Jimi died 45 years ago  today

Most of everyone else on that list is still alive and well. Except Jim Morrison. And of course, MCA.

This world sometimes takes the most interesting people away from us before we can possibly comprehend how incredible they are.

Other times this world takes the most amazing and beautiful people away while they’re at their absolute height of pure talent and wondrous influence.

Dang it.

Lets Go. No. Really, Let’s Go.

Ever wanted to just stop everything and go travel? A loaded question but still important to ask. I once believed that it took half a lifetime of work to finally sit behind the wheel of an RV or join some senior tour group caravanning through Europe.

Tangent: Hard to imagine an entire generation that had to endlessly toil just to stay barely fed. Or a single mom with two jobs riding the city bus. Not much in the way of folks being overfed during the deepreshin’. Here I am talking about airplanes and leisurely international travel.

So why not go now, besides the inconvenience of finding work when you get home? Why not take time and travel? Be damned not having the stability that affords so many pedestrian lifestyles. Such lifestyles rarely even fathom the idea of international travel.

Some people are perfectly content being comfortable in their own state or region and since the United States is so massive, being sequestered to your own area often means having an enormous amount of land to explore and enjoy, so why would you go anywhere else?

Vacations, staycations, whatever the reason, the travel should be pleasing and observant of the beauty in cultural variety and beautiful differences.

Go! Pack a damn bag and go!

I want to work in Vietnam, save up for a conversion van, come home and drive me and my sweetheart across this great nation in which I was born. After that, the idea of jetting from Southeast Asia to France for no good reason other than to just do so, is truly a dream so grand I can barely wrap my pea brain around it.

I want to die in France. Paris awaits me and I shall do what it takes to get there, live there, be there, indefinitely. Grow old and more beautiful in a country built by style and grace and dressed in love and simplicity. Where else would I possibly belong?