My friend Marisa mentioned in one of her recent Livejournal posts having ridden together with her lover, the man who treacherously stole her love from me.
(For you quadrupeds out there, in my journal the verb ride is always in reference to motorcycles. And riding "together" means two motorcycles, and two drivers.)
(For those of you who don't know already, I'm actually in shameful denial of the fact that it's really her boyfriend that I've always loved. I'm acting out, and it's ugly. I know I'm better than that. I only wish you did, too.)
So, back to my point.
Marisa described riding with him as:
mutually independently beautiful liberating together & singular at the same time
I ride, and because riding is one of the few times I feel intensely enough to actually feel my feelings, and because I know how it feels just to ride alone, the image and idea of riding with a lover takes my breath away, and makes me cold, and peaceful, and serene.
The image, the icons, the imagos
A pair of speed angels skirling around each other like hunting hawks, riding the thermals of their engines exhaust. A dance whose steps are determined and defined by grace, and nerves, and power; twin hunters racing, silent in their thoughts, drowning the world in thunder in their wake. Ying and yang, focused together while riding apart. A couple whose trust and desire are woven together in patterns of acceleration and thrust. Black crows in black leather flying low above a long black river that never ends, until it reaches the deep gray sea.
And I felt envy, and the beautiful taste of knowing two friends were creating a moment that has never been before, and can never be again, once they have left the world.
I felt the slow, sinuous satisfaction of knowing that somewhere, beyond the reach of the worlds bleak jaws, friends I adore were lighting candles in the cathedral of Desire.
Billy S. would have told you that a motorcycle is just another beast with two backs.
And he would have been right.
Two motorcycles, two drivers; A thousand pound of steel and flesh with four bodies, two hearts, and one soul. A soul that whispers go
The silent, peaceful intensity involved in that moment must have been perfect, no matter the speed, and the howling metal, and the mad, bad madness of the ride. People tell secrets about themselves they dont even know when they have a complete absence of limitations hot and thundering between their thighs. When you ride, you cant speak; when you cant speak, its impossible to lie. When youre risking your life, one second to the next, your fear, or its lack, will be written in the angle of your speedometers needle, or burning through your visor in the shifting hieroglyphics of amber LEDs. Every second that a rider is alive is a testament to their skill, their luck, and their passion. To find that matched in a lover, a partner, a friend, to share that with your chosen, would be a rare and burning thing.
It would sound like falling through black velvet.
It would taste like ice water dripping off of stainless steel.
It would be that pure.
-o-
Namaste, Fatass. Keep the rubber side down.
In all things.
(For you quadrupeds out there, in my journal the verb ride is always in reference to motorcycles. And riding "together" means two motorcycles, and two drivers.)
(For those of you who don't know already, I'm actually in shameful denial of the fact that it's really her boyfriend that I've always loved. I'm acting out, and it's ugly. I know I'm better than that. I only wish you did, too.)
So, back to my point.
Marisa described riding with him as:
mutually independently beautiful liberating together & singular at the same time
I ride, and because riding is one of the few times I feel intensely enough to actually feel my feelings, and because I know how it feels just to ride alone, the image and idea of riding with a lover takes my breath away, and makes me cold, and peaceful, and serene.
The image, the icons, the imagos
A pair of speed angels skirling around each other like hunting hawks, riding the thermals of their engines exhaust. A dance whose steps are determined and defined by grace, and nerves, and power; twin hunters racing, silent in their thoughts, drowning the world in thunder in their wake. Ying and yang, focused together while riding apart. A couple whose trust and desire are woven together in patterns of acceleration and thrust. Black crows in black leather flying low above a long black river that never ends, until it reaches the deep gray sea.
And I felt envy, and the beautiful taste of knowing two friends were creating a moment that has never been before, and can never be again, once they have left the world.
I felt the slow, sinuous satisfaction of knowing that somewhere, beyond the reach of the worlds bleak jaws, friends I adore were lighting candles in the cathedral of Desire.
Billy S. would have told you that a motorcycle is just another beast with two backs.
And he would have been right.
Two motorcycles, two drivers; A thousand pound of steel and flesh with four bodies, two hearts, and one soul. A soul that whispers go
The silent, peaceful intensity involved in that moment must have been perfect, no matter the speed, and the howling metal, and the mad, bad madness of the ride. People tell secrets about themselves they dont even know when they have a complete absence of limitations hot and thundering between their thighs. When you ride, you cant speak; when you cant speak, its impossible to lie. When youre risking your life, one second to the next, your fear, or its lack, will be written in the angle of your speedometers needle, or burning through your visor in the shifting hieroglyphics of amber LEDs. Every second that a rider is alive is a testament to their skill, their luck, and their passion. To find that matched in a lover, a partner, a friend, to share that with your chosen, would be a rare and burning thing.
It would sound like falling through black velvet.
It would taste like ice water dripping off of stainless steel.
It would be that pure.
-o-
Namaste, Fatass. Keep the rubber side down.
In all things.