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.

No matter who wins, I win.

The Haloscan Happening of the Week award goes to Chuck for his astute observation that crashing a motorcycle isn't really news, at least not in these parts. Seriously, no two people have not seen me crash a motorcycle.

Unrelatedly, last night after my cousin's middle school graduation, we went to their community pool. I was fully clothed but I just jumped into the water. The Home-owner's Association was having their weekly meeting right next to the pool. I got a few odd looks and one woman asked aloud, "Why is he swimming in his clothes?" Luis was right behind me and on the ball. "It's okay," my little brother said. "He's waterproof."

And I am.

It's Friday.

Drop dem pants.

I celebrated the end of my birthday evening by crashing my motorcycle. No, crashing is too dignified a word for what I did. I should say that in an attempt to travel a distance on top of my motorcycle, my plan went horribly awry and instead I traveled a short distance underneath it.

I remember the beginning and the end, not so much the middle. I was taking a small sharp turn far to quickly, locked up the rear brake, some things happened, and then my motorcycle was on its right side with my left leg underneath it. At some point some thing, perhaps the ground, slammed my right side like three baseball bats duct-taped together. My helmet did its job.

Stunned, I tugged pathetically at my trapped leg. I heard a voice in my head, not my usual inner monologue. "GET UP." I gave a mighty tug and my leg was free. Hurting, but free. I stood up then doubled over for a second as my ribs protested. Cars were lining up behind me in the single lane, idling helpfully. I tried to lift the bike, but couldn't. I tried to pull it out of the way with an equal lack of success.

"PICK IT UP."

I squatted down, grabbed the handlebar and part of the central frame, and set the motorcycle upright. I wheeled it to the side of the road. The other cars zipped by. A cursory inspection revealed a few scrapes but I couldn't find any major damage, not that I'm really qualified to do so. A quick inspection of myself was the same. Scraped up, lost some fluids, some cosmetic damage, but nothing to stop me from functioning. I started the bike and listened. Sounds normal. Louder, since the muffler had become disconnected. I popped it back on and rode off. My right turn signal, the one I had whacked into service but had since failed again, was now functioning perfectly. Sweet.

I should probably mention that I had just watched a film involving a certain Speed Racer but I'm certain that in no way influenced my racing around and subsequent "crash".

According to the makeshift Stonehenge in my backyard that I built out of bicycle frames and old bird baths, today is my 26th birthday. Thus begins the spring of my second youth. Rather than age in the traditional fashion, I have decided to water down the whiskey of experience with the sweet soda water of child logic. I will try to listen more than I speak, ask "Why?" a great deal more, and assume everyone is my friend.

There is a nexus that links budding life and fading glory: every question is obligated to be a philosophical one. Truth must be layered like a sandwich in a Dagwood comic; unencumbered by gravity or common sense and always attempted with a foolhardy optimism.

I'm also going to act a lot more grizzled at times since it goes with my facial hair.

I can't wait.

Sarah McLachlan has spoken to me through the television screen like a sultry Big Brother. She has demanded that I adopt an animal. I have no choice, nor do I want any other choice, than to obey.

I'm keeping my eyes open.