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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Three a.m. Lessons
Post-Nap Damn, was I tired when I posted the earlier, detail-less entry. The days just fly by and I just hang on--not in a bad sense, but in the out-of-control kind of way of dreams. A Book About Frida, Or, And Then There Were None I was changing the license plate on Frida yesterday and the man next door said, "That's a nice bike you got there." I replied, "Thanks. She's a beauty, isn't she?" And Frida is more than a distraction. She's like a textbook that you get new, one of the ones with the stiff, unbroken back and the spaces between the pages that seem nonexistant and which hands other than yours have never touched. She's a book of lessons about protection and maintenance and freedom and responsibility. She's a book of lessons about safety and gender and individuality. She's a book of lessons about the road, the open road, the road not taken, the road taken. She's a book of lessons about speed and agility. She's a book of lessons. And on Frida, I can outrun my cell phone. I can outrun distraction. I can outrun preconceived notions. And, in fact, my life depends on these things, too. And not just when I ride Frida. I feel so crazy and uncertain on her back. I feel like the goddess Sedna, whose lifeless body was snagged on a fishing net and carried out onto the ice, where she was reborn. I feel like the creator of my own existence, which is precarious, which is exhilarating, which is absolutely necessary. Early Morning Lessons At three a.m., the city is police officers, a few listless drivers, and people who look comfortable standing on streetcorners at three a.m. I am none of these things, so I skim this dreamlike landscape like a tourist. I pulled into the first gas station. In the parking lot, facing the street, there is a police officer in his car. His dome light is on and he is reading his notes. Across the street at a twenty-four hour restaurant, many of the staff have come out to smoke. Several security guards mill with servers, cooks, busboys. I ride up to a pump and kill my engine. I remove my gloves but not my helmet. (I am taken for a boy if I leave my jacket and helmet on. This strikes me as a safer option than being taken for a girl.) I crouch beside my bike and check the air pressure on the front and back tires. I try to put gas in, but the machine won't read my credit card, so I climb on top of Frida to find another gas station. It's not terribly cold out. Several people are in shorts and short-sleeved t-shirts. But the air rushing past me chills me. I have worn my thinner gloves, a long sleeved shirt, jeans, and my jacket without the liner. (I will return home shortly for my heavier gloves and a turtleneck sweater.) At the next gas station, two men are standing out front. One of them is smoking. They both eye me curiously but curiously listlessly. (I know they are making assumptions about me. What are those assumptions? How closely do they match my assumptions about myself? Of myself as they see me?) Again, I pull off my gloves but leave my helmet on. I put two dollars worth of gas into my tank, filling her up. I reset my trip odometer, climb on the bike, fire her up. We ride away. We ride right into The Aka Demon, The Demon Who Finished The Job. We ride into and past them. Into and past them, over and over. It's like the background of a cheap cartoon, where I keep passing the same building over and over, even while my life rolls on in front of the same background. (I am afraid of being caught again. I am afraid, too, of winning the lottery. I am afraid of everyday miracles. This is new knowledge. These are the morals of new lessons.) It's cold. I throttle on--"rolling on" Mike called it, yelling out "Roll On! Roll On! Roll On!" at me in curve practice. I lean into my turns, lean with the bike, though it feels strange to tip myself forty-five degrees at forty mph. I avoid looking at the road, the road rushing under my wheels. (I don't know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels./ Looking back at the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through/ Looking into their eyes, I see they're running too.} I change lanes just to practice changing lanes. I signal, swerve, cancel my signal. I practice engine braking on the street just to do it. I practice quick stops at stop lights. I signal my intentions to empty streets before cornering. Slow. Look. Press. Roll. Roll On! Roll On! Roll On!
More lies:
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