intricacies and Yellow bracelets

When we do something REALLY uber stupid, if it's public (quantifying "public": 1 or more persons) we loose face and Chiclets. And dude, those Chiclets are harder to replace than they are to eat.
I'm a little hungry and must construct myself a sandwich to ward away the imminent drop in blood sugar which makes it even harder to focus on the things which matter.
However I hate on myself for being the only one who would do this, we all go through some variation of it: feelings of inadequacy and absolute IDIOTRY (which can breed "fear and loathing" of oneself). I must write that it's quite comforting to know that I'm not alone in this endeavor. That's when the problems begin: when one feels one is alone in this whole adventure. The next step is an inward spiral of disgust and self-comparison. After that? Well, we become catatonic and die. Just kidding. Perhaps that's a drastic end to the story, but my goal is to scare us all back into the mode of glowing self/situational-awareness which can buoy us through ANYTHING.

Before the LIVESTRONG bracelets became vogue and gently shackled writs all over the globe, I served as one of the connectors at the local Day Camp. I played at this camp with the lofty position title of Games Specialist (Yes, folks, if you search for them, the most bonus jobs can be found).
For a High School boy of intra-pubescent age and temperament, I found it quite rejuvenating to work with children who ALL have questions and nervous energy to streamline. Children are gorgeous like that: they have nothing but potential, and have far more depth than one could possibly believe, but sometimes they require a prod in the right direction. The Games Specialist played the facilitator-and-connector part to these smiling intricacies. I incorporated cardio, cohesion, cooperation and a number of other characteristics into games I constructed with items from the Bag-o-Fun, with a healthy swath of imagination.
Each of these "intricacies" is an INDIVIDUAL complete with their own insecurities, energy, confusion, knowledge, and freakin' joy! To work with these little people required that I achieve a calm mind, for only in THAT unique state of OM was I able to both engage and keep track of them all!
So this camp had a lovely Dance Director named Steph. She was never one to falter in the energy department, a trait which graces many dancer/actor/theatre people I've bumped into. One fine day she handed me this small plastic bag which fit around it's contents like the circle around the Vitruvian Man. Steph told me to give her a dollar for it so I obliged and looked at the odd package, expecting that the next move involve donning.
I noticed the word "LIVESTRONG" indented on the rubber. Dilemma: which WAY does it go on? Should I display the word writ large on the wrist for public viewing, or should I face the word for my eyes to read?
Then it hit me: I was trying to BE there for 700+ beautiful children, of all ages, and I realized that it HAD to face out, upsidown to my eyes.
Two things which comforted me about this final decision: 1. I COULD (and still am able to) read upsidown and 2. I could use it as a statement-in-apparel for the children. I could tell them from where it came, the brilliant marketing it embodied as a way to increase awareness and monetary funds for research to thwart a heinous disease...Most importantly I could tell them why they should ALL "livestrong" as they conquer those excitements during the game; as they reached far, but sometimes just not far enough to catch a ball; how they do require the healthy net of their team-members to aid in this gaming endeavor; how they could BE tough and not feel bad about losing or winning, but that they had PLAYED is what mattered. Of course you know I'm not talking entirely about a Day Camp game...LIVESTRONG for all I figured.
Today I realized that after all these years of sporting the band outwards for others, as I'm a little off balance, it would be helpful to turn it inward. One must learn to find when to turn in and when to turn out.
So today, if only for the short while it'll take me to reset, I don't have to read upsidown...

...Naked Amid Rolls of Toilet Tissue

Today my temperament was like the weather we've been experiencing. I know this gives a bad rap to rain showers, but today I would consider them negatively. So it was a low day, but not-so-low-I-require-caffeine day. It started off well, owing to the spectacular consecutive wins in two games of Checkers when I was supposed to be watching the football game with the group. I must confess that I'd rather watch curling than football, but then we all know it's the group one watches it with that sets the tone.
You see, you really don't need to know anything about football to get into it. These dudes/dudettes who make their millions reporting/arguing on stats of this player and number of catches by this player...well they can keep their jobs. Interesting thing IS that football is mainstream, and has a large spectator base. But then with these key ingredients, one can make anything big.
I wonder sometimes if I could successfully market a show about ants.
These little multi-segmented body-type things are really exciting to watch. They work together better than any football team ever could. They can PULL things which are twenty times their size; no matter how many steroids you give to a line-backer, they couldn't manage the feat. Ants are vicious to outsiders. They are tireless and don't require millions spent on sports therapy, so the show would never have to end! Think of the ratings! If you're down with spectatering (I was thinking of spectators and potatoes when I made up the previous word) parallel lines of dudes, specifically parallel lines of dudes who face off with each other in a three point stance, well I'll take my camera and zoom in on the parallel lines of ants in a constantly motile SIX-POINT stance as they navigate to and fro some food source and stop to check a foe, the course, etc.
Anyway, tangent done. Back to checkers. A Sebastian and an Ava challenged me to a game of checkers. While one played the other refereed (aka made up rules to help their buddy win against me). I trounced both of them. When I learnt their ages were a wily six each, I still felt a strong sense of accomplishment. Mrs. Oomph yelled at me for doing so, but I reveled in the grandeur anyway. But I told her next pair of six-year-olds who challenge me I'll let win.
Today, I didn't win. I woke up late and didn't get a chance to do the things I'd planned. Crunch time 'till the next test leaves me nervous of sorts. My temperament slowly lost pizazz to match this fine gray day.
The end of the day livened up a bit with a near mishap. I was about to enthrone myself on the toilette when I found not but two gleaming sheets on the roll. Naked for a pre-shower defecation, I birthday-suited it up the ladder to the attic and into the TV box to snag three rolls: one for installment, the other two for reserve.
I backed down the steps I'd labored up and promptly lost balance on the third from the bottom. Hell! I auto-administer yoga one day a week in a class at the local gym! This isn't acceptable from a man with my reputed balancing talents!
Long story short, I managed to catch myself with a heel hook on the door and swing my nakedness back so that my CG was between grounded foot and the inclined ladder. Fabulous thing: my jewels were lower than the rung in closest proximity to them. Saved by the heel hook. What an attention-demanding pose I found myself in! (please take a second to imagine it...smiles anyone?).
It occurred to me that a great way to get attention is death. Death has always intrigued people. Why someone who was there a minute ago is now lying rigid. All major religions capitalize on the morbid expectation of it and what the hell we should do now so as to engineer the correct route AFTER it. If there's a slip-and-slide, please let me ride it wherever it may take me...I mean come on, how captive an audience do you want to make? I listen to a good speaker because they engage with their oratory and antics, not because they tell me my presence and attention shall truly deserve a fancy dinner afterward. But then again the invitation to free food does grip an organism's psyche, and I would certainly listen if a scrumptious five-course was the end result. There you have it; the REASON for the enticing entrapment of a grand religion: no one can pass up the EXPECTATION of a fancy dinner. I'd eat myself to death I would. Back to death.
Some fear it. Some revel in how close they can get to it and still come back "alive." But it's certainly an attention-getter, death is. I figure mine would make a great story in the newspaper with the headline: Man Found Dead on Kitchen Floor, Naked Amid Rolls of Toilet Tissue. Talk about your hooks! People would certainly tune in to the news story. Or even better, the deadpan ignorant way most of us watch the tube, the story would just come on and hopefully snap us out of our stupors. If I was really lucky, people would even get the urge to use the bathroom and might even burn up a few calories on the trip. So the story of my death would combat the freakin EPIDEMIC of obesity which grips our nation like a fat-man's claw on a McDonald's burger. I almost gave my life for a headline. But no...
Alas, my life is too dynamic, my dreams unsatiated, my love developing and unquenched, the music I produce too terrible; my mind to curious, and my loved ones too goddamn amazing. Tonight I thwarted an attempt on my naked life by the very squares which serve to clean my behind.
Death blinked first folks. Death blinked first...

Three Eargasms

In the last few days, there have been three distinct sounds which deserved and grabbed my attention. They are as follows (in chronological order):
1. Racket ball ricochet:
Yesterday, I was lifting with Mr. Clean. We came across the current apple of his eye: a brown-eyed coed named FJ. Mr. Clean realizes that there are other hombres gunning for FJ, and FJ knows it too. However, the status of this complicated set of relationships is not the focus to my story...no, the key is WHERE we encountered FJ. She was in the company of this dude named Red.
On their way in to do battle in a Racket ball Chamber, Mr. Clean struck up a conversation. FJ leaned against the wall, left sole on the wall supporting her, right foot on the floor. She interacted with both Mr Clean and Red, while they gently sparred with each other. I wasn't in the mood to get deeply involved, responding to questions posed at me, and chose instead to focus on bouncing the blue Ball they were about to bash around.
I wonder if designing of such a sphere required any audible research. Did they try to design into the ball the type of sound found pleasing to the Ball's target demographic? The reason for this inquiry is that the sound I found INTOXICATING. I adore it enough to state in my will that I require each funeral guest to obtain a racket ball ball to bounce and honor my memory...that's if I even wanted a funeral, which I don't. But that's neither here nor there.
2. TINK cans
As adorable as they are, my kitties have fleas. I have applied various potions to their napes in an effort to rid their lovely kitty bodies from said infestation. But my small apartment provided only a tiny bit of square-footage for these arachnids to divide and conquer. Therefore, Monday through Wednesday of this week was spent relatively sleepless as these small demons infested my bed and chomped on the flesh of my feet.
I have since removed all the trash, extra crap which I classified as trash, etc out of the apartment, locked the kitties out, and released a gas bomb. No explosion, just effervescence of this green gas which killed numerous bugs and two large cockroaches I found belly up on the bathroom floor when I came back after the apartment had been adequately ventilated.
The bags of empty cans I meant to recycle were left just outside the door. It rained last night (my second night in a bed sans fleas!) and the bag was buoyed aloft by a large puddle which forms outside my window due to clogged downspout-age. The bag, being top-heavy, fell over at some point, the cans floated out, and the puddle's water disappeared into the porous dirt underneath it leaving the cans strewn around in what could be considered a purely chaotic/random display (see picture please).

When I awoke, I heard the pleasing TINK of raindrops on roses...ahem...aluminum cans, and laid in bed for what must have been ten minutes simply listening to same. It was gorgeous.
3. Ewan-Shaver Octaves
As per regulation, when at last I did arise, I sadly shaved off the proud growth of my just-past-pre-pubescent beard. A day's work gone! But I had to get to class. For the pruning process I employ a small electric Wal-Mart razor I've had for five years. The double A's which are the motivation of its oscillation, naturally, begin to fade with use. But the ones I have in it are relatively new and afford my ears an elevated pitch. Of course, with time, the pitch will descend until I must get a new pair...somewhere in the low B range.
This morning, I listened to music from the Album Moulin Rouge. The version of "Your Son" was blasting forth and the lyrics were just beginning to fill my ears...
"My gift is my song
And this one's for you..."
Just after Ewan's open tonal enunciation of the word "you," I pushed the little red button and was rewarded by the buzz of its function. Crazily enough, it happened to be exactly an octave above the note just sung by Ewan! I couldn't believe the coincidence and basked in the glow.
Needless to say I had to retest and switched off the shaver, rewound the song, and it was again spot on. Earlier this week I saw a shooting star. I wonder if the two are linked? Doubtful...

Live. Deal. Dream. Repeat.

I studied much of the day today for an exam tomorrow. In the "Learning Center" where I lay my scene (ahem...study papers), I managed to snag the one of the coveted Study Rooms. The one I shot for, in particular has an open view to the outdoor pool beyond. It's hydro-motivational to see people frolicking around in a liquid I now adore (allow me to clarify: I have always adored hydration and bathing, but my "adoration" in this case refers to the pool-or more specifically its contents-before I could manage more than one lap without gasping).
I study with the goal of achieving specific ratio hour cycles broken down as: 50 minutes of brain stress to 10 minutes of brain diversion. This ratio has lasted me through my scholastic years into college and beyond. During those mystical ten-minute breaks, I refill my jug-o-water, use the urinal, don my cape and save the world...anything to "reset" my curious mind in hopes that it will be curious about the same thing it was learning 15 minutes ago.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Then there is the excitement of nearing the end and ending just such a round. Today, mine was the pool. I worked on form and attempted to incorporate technique-change drills which Sprinter mentioned. I felt an example of what I hope to be superior form, as compared with my previous attempts without such alterations. That's the key kids: employ yourself in a cycle of improvements (whether they work or not), then analyze and repeat. You're bound to get it right or die trying. I'd rather die trying than have lived knowing I never tried to improve.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Expansion of mind and your endeavors is the way of things that lead to adventure. Confusion, winning, losing, staying strong...these are added bonuses.

Triathlon makes me stronger in soooooooo many ways. But it also makes me weaker. As I came out of the pool, there was this bloke with nylon apparel and sweat indicating recent participation in a faster-than-walking pace. He held a pair of goggles by the straps in his right hand, iPod Nano strapped to his left bicep. It was 5:12, and the pool closed just a bakers-dozen-minus-one minutes ago. I allowed this information to pass between us. He dropped his shoulders and mentioned "Shit." I told him the "pool hours of operation" and he slumped a "Roger" in response.
I can tell you (my lovely reader) how much I concur with his singularly piercing feeling of frustration/anger/confusion. When I plan things to go a certain way and they don't, I take a major hit, just as this Poshrunnerdude did.
So it goes like this, in the first sentence I admitted to being a veritable machine. In the second a pulp. But truth is, my exercise plan dictates what I think should be happening, and if I can't follow it to a T due to one thing or another (freak pool closings, deflating bike tire, etc), I'm livid!
Next the "lividity" fades just under a bakers-dozen-minus-one seconds later, and I realize the possibilities of cross training, regain my composure, and gently tear my body apart in an exciting albeit unplanned manner. The beauty of resilience and improvisation shall not be underestimated as a core virtue of the human character. Live. Deal. Dream. Repeat.

Wintering a Sprinter's Critique

Tonight I met Sprinter in the pool. She instructed me on possibilities of my stroke. She has the teaching touch, and the gift of speed which she gave herself after years of working mind-numbing, technique filled miles. She mentioned that they'd do eight to ten thousand yards (ignore the change in units) in a two hour period, on the fast days. I swear I blacked out and then came to, and there she still lounged against the wall. Now I knew the reasoning behind the shape of her body. I figured she could crush me or something. But that's the beauty of swimming. It's more like picking apples than the throwing of large rocks. Notice how those who move the fastest through that viscous bunch-o oxygen and hydrogen are the best at establishing a purchase through body position and timing. This purchase allows the athlete to move past their "handhold" and continue climbing a horizontal ladder.
I tell you what: of the three sports in Triathlon, swimming has confounded me beautifully for the past three years. Perhaps this explains my attraction...Who is to know.

the Plunger and the Uncooked Steak

I feel I should explain myself. I'm a triathlete by trade, and by that I mean one who will trade my time, my hard earned gas money, my very Gatorade mix for a chance to compete in a Triathlon. But I have been stricken with a newbie's over zest for training and have sprung a leak in my Achilles tendon. Nothing that can be seen is leaking forth, simply my hopes and dreams for this past season's spectaculars.
Last season was my first full one in the sport. I raced 6 Triathlons, ratcheting down my Olympic time (favorite distance incidentally) from 2:35 to 2:02. That distance suits my ADD approach to the sport. I get bored of doing the event...and right about then it's time for the next leg/event to take over my focused mind.
The focus is what drives me crazy. Actually it does the reverse. I've always been able to ease into a haze which has been called the "flow" by some sports psychologists (never in direct reference to me, just things I've read). This flow is what I would call my "Happy Place."
It's doesn't seem normal to have as one's happy place a spot which regards the world from a glazed-eye perspective; but I revel it the vivid images and feelings I remember when I think back on being in that ecstatic haze...Athletes pushing themselves: those with flat tires wondering to toss the towel or to fix the flat and pedal on; those waiting for the memory chip from the previous member on their relay team; those walking; those sprinting to the finish; those crying; those beaming; those having two glints, both teeth and finishing medals around their necks; those hanging heads; those pulling in the water; those shouting encouragement; everyone...The sun, clouds, road, sweat, colours...
However much I enjoy watching these things from my haze, it doesn't mean that I don't "come to" often enough and have to lie to myself, push myself, argue with myself to calm the beast back to it's perch on pride rock. I have no stake in the race as far as finishing times or places go. No, my pride is wrapped up in finishing the thing. Bad day or good. Mrs Tri-oomph would say I'm extremely self-critical after most races. But there's not one race I don't learn something from!
It's for these reasons that I've developed into the hardcore rehabilitator that I am. I'm actually not completely sure that it's the tendon giving me problems, could be a sheath, or a bone spur problem. Either way it takes me away from my definition: running.
Today I took that into account and rehabbed with an aqua run. It was gently mind-numbing to go 15 yards back and forth in the deep end for 45 minutes. But there were two beautiful young children splashing with their father which provided many comedic moments/reprieves from the monotony. Furthermore, I encountered Aqua-newbie and Thing One and Thing Two who are in the same boat as Aqua-newbie. Then Simoan walked in as I was hopping out, and we exchanged "sup's."
There was this other dude I encountered, Tri-firsty, who is doing just that this weekend in Panama City. It's a sprint distance, and I could barely hold back my excitement for what I can only hope will turn into a lifelong memory for him: the first triathlon.
After a quick study session, it was off to McClin's Steak House for their namesake with some friends, not to mention Ketchup and a salad. I've never had a complaint with their service until tonight. But if I were to file it in an archive, I'd actually place it not in the Complaint File, but in the Rather-too-Novel-to-Get-Annoyed-About File (just behind the Polish Invention file). I received two lovely slices of Sirloin as the stories and laughs began to flow like the Iced Tea. There were an even five of us: 2 lovely ladies, 2 hansom gentlemen and myself.
I bring numbers into this because it seemed to escape the chef's notice when I sent back two undercooked steaks to be "Medium Welled, not Rared, please." The turning point in this story came when the waiter walked in with a newly clean plate and asked me to cut into the beef to ensure it was to my liking. Note: I sliced smoothly into one steak. And here was my fatal error for the night: I neglected the other.
When I finished the piece I cut-checked for cook-ed-ness, I bore down into the second and was amazed to see it rare in preparation! I couldn't believe that the cook had not noticed that there were two steaks on the plate. So I did the first thing that came to mind: I hailed the waiter cordially and asked him to take it back and "Have it seriously killed this time. No more mooing, please." He apologized, managed the deed, and I finished a 3 course meal: the first in which I found the steaks' hidden secret of rareness; the second in which I devoured one steak and noticed the others clandestine efforts to make it between my bicuspids still mooing; and the third in which I munched happily on the second piece and finished (I don't consider salad a course, just some roughage).
I needed to recuperate from the merriment and therefore drove to Wal-mart to shop. Mr Clean was there buying water bottles and a filter which would both filter and fumigate his apartment's air with an aroma suiting his nasal passages. Wine was also there with her neat list arranged just so in her small green book. At times I wish I were that organized. Then I remember that I had considered this list thing before leaving the apartment but couldn't find a pen with which to scribe my wishes on a shopping list, and gave up in favour of the longer shopping method: the Perusal Meanderings of a man who has nothing left in the world but to consider what will fit into his cupboard. None of this surgical shopping. I'm the shotgun, she's the 22.
I later happened upon Wine and saw she was in close proximity to a fabulous implement: a plunger. I seized the opportunity, swiped the implement from its perch, and clandestinely slid it into her basket. She said "Oh, excuse me," then realized it was me and smiled. I beamed back with the knowledge that she'd been...well...plungered!
Knowing me (apparently) too well, she noticed my dumb silence and looked instinctively at the basket, noticing the plunger among her goods. A laugh and a mock swipe at my head lead to a chuckled "I'd be soooo embarrassed if that was in there when I checked out. What would I say? 'Hard night. Hadda come in for a plunger.'" I took the implement back and replaced it to its noble slanted pose. Tootles to Wine and I headed about my business.
It was then that around the isle corner came a cart full of nothing but Jack-o-Lanterns. I gazed, and then politely inquired. The woman pushing it explained that she was handing them out at her work, and I told her "how nice of you. I've never seen such a cart." She told me next time she comes back, since the candy wouldn't fit this time through, she'd fill her "buggy" with the tasty treats and chocolaty delights. She said it caused people to look at her funny, at which I mentioned she should tell them it was the new rage diet, undertaken by all the movie stars. We had a mutual chuckle and I checked out and walked my own "buggy" to the car.
Removing the plastic reflecting shiny crap that adorns many things at this time in history, I put a brand new collar on each of my kitties.

Gym-Swim-Yoga Tri

After a day of lounging with the kitties and studying my papers, I managed a Triathlon worth noting. It started with 45 minutes of shoulders, pecks and triceps in the gym. After razing my own ability to lift an arm higher than my waste, I went into the locker room for T1. Donning the green Speedo dragsuit (which sounds WAY larger than it actually is...) I munched a PBJ to thwart the bonk, and I was spitting into my goggles before I knew it.
One lap under water (ritualistic first lap I developed with a buddy back in college) and I was off, and OH how the ache steam-rollered my ability to reach! In the "how to swim" books, which dot my shelves like so many beacons of light on a stormy sea, I'd read that reaching sets the swimmer up for an "efficient pull phase." 30 minutes down the lane line I managed what I would consider a "full pull," all the while ignoring my Traps and Delts as they refused to dance in formation with the other muscle fibers in that area of a protesting shoulder. I thought come on dudes, do as Daddy says now or I'll freakin' turn this body around! All I was asking them to do: lengthen an arm so the fingertips could grab water closer to the other side of the pool. Was it that hard? 30 minutes into it, they acquiesced to my request and I spent the next few seconds at one end of the pool stretch-congratulating them for their efforts.
When the pool had sufficiently dried my face and the digital numbers right of the colon read 45, to T2 to (written numerically: 2 t2 2) snag the spare shirt, my gear, and my desire to get the third leg of the Tri underway.
Yoga class divulged a different teacher tonight, but she still had the same zest for stretching body parts and encouraged me/us do the same. With "Namaste" I crossed the tape and looked at the clock. Some quick math told me that this Gym-Swim-Yoga Tri had taken 2:37...about as long as it took me to slog through my first Olympic distance Tri (swim-bike-run that is)! Not that I could really compare the two, but the similar times did remind me of that beautiful course.
Satisfied, and body limbered, I headed the Honda home for a dinner of Stir Fry Delight (search not in your local supermarkets for this delicacy, this name I've given to the generic brand, cause it's got more spice than calling it "Generic Brand").

Reflecting upon what I had just completed, I marveled at seeing Hydro-newbie again.
Hydro-newbie is just that, and his fear of the water left him nervous to put his head down in it. That was 2 weeks ago. I see him periodically and he asks me for advice. It's rather gratifying to have someone ask you how to do something, twice as gratifying if you actually can DO the thing even, like myself, just barely. Although I wouldn't call my self an Olympian, I haven't drowned yet and figured that condition qualified me to discuss tactics for entering and (more importantly) emerging from the deep end.
This past Friday, I encouraged Hydro-newbie to venture 5 feet into the deep end with the expectation that he'd swim himself back to the shallow end and not put his foot down 'till the wall. He did this rather hesitantly, but with the vigor of one who figures drowning is only a gurgle away.
Tonight he arrived while I was resting at a wall, we exchanged smiles and he promptly got IN the deep end and then swam to the OPPOSITE wall! I nearly inhaled the deep end as I treaded over its depths. How invigorating to see such progress. His learning curve was just as vertical as the walls he'd let go of to make the stellar journey. 25 yards! Soon I told him it'll be miles.

Bat Bridge

Tonight was like most nights here, warm and filled with chirping. But I wanted to put icing on this cake, so I strapped on my shoes, pumped up the tires and clipped in to my bike for a gentle ride. It's been a few days since I've straddled The Beast (must think of a better name) because I rode the Dahlonega 6-Gap this past weekend. I've never actually experienced aches in both Achilles tendons and was rather put off. But, regrouping, I got over the slight depression which follows any large sporting endeavor (called "PMS" for marathoners, etc), and promised to let the things rest. They were swathed like babies in ice each evening, and neither running nor biking would fill my agenda this past week, to prevent any further aggravating of my tendons.
But tonight, feeling that they had rested sufficiently and to prevent my head from smoking due to lack of heart-rate-raise-age, I headed out for a spin...It was like rebirth in some world I already knew. The sun was low in the sky with clouds that resembled convex geodes. My legs immediately remembered how to push, and my arms ambled to the center of the handle bars to achieve a comfort level surpassed by few water beds.
Down a slight decline there was a crow. The primary flight feathers on the wings sheened and the shafts looked like pick-up sticks not-so-carelessly dropped, but placed. I know I shouldn't, but I have totally enjoyed riding in between the yellow lines this crow's carcass now straddled across.
It seemed that the crow's death was intimate and individual. In any movie I've seen of late, there's always some friend of the dead with a solemnly willing hand to close the eyelids of the fallen...and CUT!
No, instead of having a comrade, the crow knew/hoped no other would risk death in that not-so-yellow-brick road to close its eye-lids when its body would start decaying from the inside anyway...It actually performed the act itself in its own way. Lacking Homo sapian dexterity for the purpose, it reached its wing up and covered its head. This little story would perhaps explain the chalk-outline way it lay when I passed its body.
From death to life.
I rode further and watched the sun glow through an old wooden fence, bar-coding me as I rode by. My goal was a bridge which confounded me the first time I got lost in...er...rode this route.
It was a warm summer day, and I was buzzing along when I heard the squeaking of a car when I went over this particular bridge for the first time. But when I out-and-backed it, I noticed the same squeaking in the same spot and no car in sight. I hit the brakes, pulled out my headphones and rolled my bike forward two feet as I searched for the sound which could have emanated from my sleek ride. No dice.
Retracing my rollings, I noted the sounds coming from an expansion joint in the bridge. In the noonday sun I noticed a freaking monster amount of little squeakers. Thinking they were mice, I wondered how the hell they'd gotten themselves squished into that confined and parallel space? I figured on I-beam traversing as a possible method of arrival. But then I looked again and noticed wings. This is why I call that span across the creek "Bat Bridge." And whenever I cycle over it, however my legs burn or my lungs want more, I recall that fabulous first introduction to the bats and their mysterious choice of spaces to occupy.
My ride ended as serenely as it began, with some serious pressure on my bladder. The urge to pee and the setting sun conspired to leave me pumped for the air conditioned apartment. Dinner would be heating in a few. All in all, just perfect...
This is the first and great blog post, and the second is like unto it...