Reposted from Livejournal.
So...
Last night I hopped to Oakland, picked up my most ancient and treasured friend, Dsrtfaery, strapped her into a hooker hat, put the key into the ignition, and took her for a ride.
The bike, not Dsrtfaery.
We went to the Ruby Room first, where we tipped over some of the East Bay Rats' bikes, did tequila shots, and then tore up 880 at 12,000 rpm, doing wheelies in front of cops in second gear.
Okay, not really.
Dsrtfaery did whiskey shots.
Back to reality, or what passes for it around here...
However, I did pick up my Boo; After much thought, and weighing of options, I decided that if anyone deserved to be the First Person to ride pillion on Dawnrazor, It had to be her. And it was great. We rode around the lake, hopped to the Ruby for a bit to have a beer ("a" = one), and talked about how fucked the Irish are and how hard it was for me to get any sugar.
There's a connection there, just don't ask me to explain it.
And this is the odd bit:
I've come to the conclusion that life is going to be a bit strange for a while. It's obvious that finally, after a long season in hell, change is coming; if not come; if not came. No matter what happens ::knocks on wood::, I have a kind of freedom that I simply haven't had for almost a year and a half.
I was tooling around the North Bay yesterday, and after a few minutes of riding, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was; I was, in fact, lost. In fucking Marin. And that realization made me so incredibly happy, that I cracked up, inside my helmet.
And here is the reason, and the key:
I've always felt that the ability to become lost without fear or reservation is one of the most valuable luxuries a person can have.
I know that most people don't look at it from that angle (up until three days ago, I wasn't seeing it this way either. But, if you hand Indigo a soapbox, don't be surprised if he climbs up on it); To some of us, 'lost' is a frightening concept. It's indicative of helplessness, danger, isolation. And it can be so; but that begs the question of the metaphysical state of the metaphorical glass of water; is the coin half empty or half full?
The people who are afraid to become lost are the ones who don't have faith in their own abilities, who don't trust in others, and who believe that there is no force, god, or entity watching over them. In short, only our own perceived weakness makes the unknown frightening.
Those that don't take risks, or refuse to lunge into uncharted territories, are the ones who need ritual and routine to feel safe, in order to feel as if they control their lives (and therefore themselves). They only feel safe when they live within limits; they are the ones who would trade security for life.
Note to self and others:
Even if you're the force that's controlling yourself, you are still being controlled. You've replaced the authoritarian figures of your parents with an imago of control; a parent that lives inside your head, and wears your face. But ask yourself: Do I really trust my own motives? Do I have my best interests in mind? Am I really 'surviving' or just masochistically prolonging the death of my inner child?
standard caveat:
This is not about you.
Unless you think it is.
As I've said, I trust my friends. Some of us are genuine fighters.
/standard caveat
A friend (well, she's not a friend yet, although I'm looking forward to it) shared a metaphor with me recently; slogging through a swamp, kicking alligators in the teeth. St. George and the dragon, with Creedence and Christian Death as the soundtrack. My own iconography is different, but the sentiment is the same. It's good to fight; it's good to refuse to give in. But last night an ex of mine inadvertantly made a point (although she didn't see it): If you're fighting the same battle, over and over, time after time, then your tactics just suck. If you repeat the same battles, then your strategy may be based on accomplishing the exact opposite goal that the one you think you're fighting towards.
Sometimes, by protecting yourself from getting lost, all you're really doing is protecting yourself from life and it's inevitable messes. This applies to emotions, trust, adventures, orgasms, and hope. All of these things just don't happen if you think about the consequences. This defense can protect you from anything you are frightened of, because you can just call it being 'safe'. You're avoiding 'messes'.
But the unavoidable fact is that life is messy; it's full of dead ends, swamps, alligators and pitfalls (metaphor provided by ACTIVISION ). It's about change, chaos, and unfamiliar terrain.
My motorcycle is a material possession; but it's also a tool, and a symbol.
In the exact same way, a key can be all of these things as well.
They are both physicalities, potentialities, and concepts simultaneously.
Everyone needs a key.
For some it's money, or a vehicle, or a cock, or a cunt, or cocaine, or a book, or a forest.
So what's yours?
So...
Last night I hopped to Oakland, picked up my most ancient and treasured friend, Dsrtfaery, strapped her into a hooker hat, put the key into the ignition, and took her for a ride.
The bike, not Dsrtfaery.
We went to the Ruby Room first, where we tipped over some of the East Bay Rats' bikes, did tequila shots, and then tore up 880 at 12,000 rpm, doing wheelies in front of cops in second gear.
Okay, not really.
Dsrtfaery did whiskey shots.
Back to reality, or what passes for it around here...
However, I did pick up my Boo; After much thought, and weighing of options, I decided that if anyone deserved to be the First Person to ride pillion on Dawnrazor, It had to be her. And it was great. We rode around the lake, hopped to the Ruby for a bit to have a beer ("a" = one), and talked about how fucked the Irish are and how hard it was for me to get any sugar.
There's a connection there, just don't ask me to explain it.
And this is the odd bit:
I've come to the conclusion that life is going to be a bit strange for a while. It's obvious that finally, after a long season in hell, change is coming; if not come; if not came. No matter what happens ::knocks on wood::, I have a kind of freedom that I simply haven't had for almost a year and a half.
I was tooling around the North Bay yesterday, and after a few minutes of riding, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was; I was, in fact, lost. In fucking Marin. And that realization made me so incredibly happy, that I cracked up, inside my helmet.
And here is the reason, and the key:
I've always felt that the ability to become lost without fear or reservation is one of the most valuable luxuries a person can have.
I know that most people don't look at it from that angle (up until three days ago, I wasn't seeing it this way either. But, if you hand Indigo a soapbox, don't be surprised if he climbs up on it); To some of us, 'lost' is a frightening concept. It's indicative of helplessness, danger, isolation. And it can be so; but that begs the question of the metaphysical state of the metaphorical glass of water; is the coin half empty or half full?
The people who are afraid to become lost are the ones who don't have faith in their own abilities, who don't trust in others, and who believe that there is no force, god, or entity watching over them. In short, only our own perceived weakness makes the unknown frightening.
Those that don't take risks, or refuse to lunge into uncharted territories, are the ones who need ritual and routine to feel safe, in order to feel as if they control their lives (and therefore themselves). They only feel safe when they live within limits; they are the ones who would trade security for life.
Note to self and others:
Even if you're the force that's controlling yourself, you are still being controlled. You've replaced the authoritarian figures of your parents with an imago of control; a parent that lives inside your head, and wears your face. But ask yourself: Do I really trust my own motives? Do I have my best interests in mind? Am I really 'surviving' or just masochistically prolonging the death of my inner child?
standard caveat:
This is not about you.
Unless you think it is.
As I've said, I trust my friends. Some of us are genuine fighters.
/standard caveat
A friend (well, she's not a friend yet, although I'm looking forward to it) shared a metaphor with me recently; slogging through a swamp, kicking alligators in the teeth. St. George and the dragon, with Creedence and Christian Death as the soundtrack. My own iconography is different, but the sentiment is the same. It's good to fight; it's good to refuse to give in. But last night an ex of mine inadvertantly made a point (although she didn't see it): If you're fighting the same battle, over and over, time after time, then your tactics just suck. If you repeat the same battles, then your strategy may be based on accomplishing the exact opposite goal that the one you think you're fighting towards.
Sometimes, by protecting yourself from getting lost, all you're really doing is protecting yourself from life and it's inevitable messes. This applies to emotions, trust, adventures, orgasms, and hope. All of these things just don't happen if you think about the consequences. This defense can protect you from anything you are frightened of, because you can just call it being 'safe'. You're avoiding 'messes'.
But the unavoidable fact is that life is messy; it's full of dead ends, swamps, alligators and pitfalls (metaphor provided by ACTIVISION ). It's about change, chaos, and unfamiliar terrain.
My motorcycle is a material possession; but it's also a tool, and a symbol.
In the exact same way, a key can be all of these things as well.
They are both physicalities, potentialities, and concepts simultaneously.
Everyone needs a key.
For some it's money, or a vehicle, or a cock, or a cunt, or cocaine, or a book, or a forest.
So what's yours?
Tommorrow, madness.