Myth Machina, Part the 3rd

I like labyrinths. My city is like a labyrinth. To a visitor, it may appear as a unnecessarily elaborate barrier against the desert. A ceramic-shingled placeholder in the sand for something, someday.

Most of my world is in this city. I grew up here, I live here. In my smallest travels along my labyrinth I pass by the places I have been but can never get back to. Then further along, further along, and I begin to pass reminders of the reminders. Hallucinations of an oasis, shimmering in the heat, promising me every hopeful ghost of my stillborn loves. Long without water, dried to husks and tumbling along in dusty breezes.

In a labyrinth, there is only one path. In a labyrinth, the only direction is forward. In a labyrinth, the quest is not for the end, but for the center.

For all nights to come, dreams of trekking through sands, almost silent but for the swish swish of my steps and the occasional bits of glass tinkling underfoot like little bells.

This Sunday I rode my motorcycle up to Flagstaff to visit the mountain-crawlin, world-changin dynamo known as Sibbitt. It was a pleasant ride up, very cool and breezy and I went 150 miles on only 3 1/2 gallons of fuel. Uphill.

(Perhaps this is a good time to point out that it is my subconscious goal that everyone in the world get a motorcycle.)

Once at Sibbit's hardly-on-fire house, I indulged in delightful home-cooked delight. Delightedly.

I also helped cut rhubarb that Sibbitt later made into a pie. I admit, I had my doubts about rhubarb. I've only ever had store-bought pies and haven't been thrilled by them.

Then I had this pie. The experience was transcendent. It was sweet and fresh and felt good for my heart somehow. It is now one of my favorite pies. And I am a man who loves pie. I squoze it in the tiny space above blueberry but below peach cobbler. Not bad for the humble rhubarb, the plant that I likened to mutant celery/collard green.

Now I must go get breakfast. I've written myself into a fierce hunger.