We all got boundary issues
“We all got boundary issues,” I think to myself. Then there is no time to think as the edge of the cliff appears and is much closer than expected. The spray of sand creates a temporary rooster tail and then the dust forms a cloud that reveals a warm westerly breeze - signed by Santa Anna.
The redistributed bits of dirt, stone and dust lie like a crescent moon. They leave a frozen record of the physics of his brush with death. Velocity, weight, gravity, stopping distance can all be calculated. But what about the heart?
He has avoided all of the medias for the past month or so. The whole thing has become one giant daily repeat. Yeah, he still checks the internet - but only once or twice a week.
“I guess there’s just a natural ebb and flow to everything…” He trails off as his thoughts disappear, reappear, transform and dematerialize.
He looks over at the kill switch located on his right side handle bar. “That’s odd, don’t remember turning that off.” Flips it back on, turns on ignition, squeezes clutch, presses ‘starter’. Engine starts easily and begins to purr immediately.
Redistributing sand and dirt once again, he spins the bike around and rejoins the asphalt road. There are no clouds. The blue azure sky hangs behind the horizon line and the black road shimmers with unharvested heat. Sometimes, he will rest his head on the tank and stare at the road as it passes inches below his feet. The proximity, so close. The sense of flying, undeniable. The asphalt becomes another kind of river. He is able to make out individual pebbles at times, nanosecond, then its gone.
The road becomes a strip of black velvet. He shoots along it, a bullet with wheels, the song of the engine, strong in his ear, an echo of the ancient past, a nanosliver of the big bang and his way of getting around.
You are there. I am sitting here, right now, staring at the photograph. The evidence. It is a picture of you with the blurry, speeding bike in the background. Your profile is contrasted perfectly with the dusky sky and there is a fire in your eye… You don’t even seem to have noticed the motorcycle… No, there is someone just outside the frame…
The redistributed bits of dirt, stone and dust lie like a crescent moon. They leave a frozen record of the physics of his brush with death. Velocity, weight, gravity, stopping distance can all be calculated. But what about the heart?
He has avoided all of the medias for the past month or so. The whole thing has become one giant daily repeat. Yeah, he still checks the internet - but only once or twice a week.
“I guess there’s just a natural ebb and flow to everything…” He trails off as his thoughts disappear, reappear, transform and dematerialize.
He looks over at the kill switch located on his right side handle bar. “That’s odd, don’t remember turning that off.” Flips it back on, turns on ignition, squeezes clutch, presses ‘starter’. Engine starts easily and begins to purr immediately.
Redistributing sand and dirt once again, he spins the bike around and rejoins the asphalt road. There are no clouds. The blue azure sky hangs behind the horizon line and the black road shimmers with unharvested heat. Sometimes, he will rest his head on the tank and stare at the road as it passes inches below his feet. The proximity, so close. The sense of flying, undeniable. The asphalt becomes another kind of river. He is able to make out individual pebbles at times, nanosecond, then its gone.
The road becomes a strip of black velvet. He shoots along it, a bullet with wheels, the song of the engine, strong in his ear, an echo of the ancient past, a nanosliver of the big bang and his way of getting around.
You are there. I am sitting here, right now, staring at the photograph. The evidence. It is a picture of you with the blurry, speeding bike in the background. Your profile is contrasted perfectly with the dusky sky and there is a fire in your eye… You don’t even seem to have noticed the motorcycle… No, there is someone just outside the frame…
