Thursday: Writing

Today I took my first major spill on my bike.

It happened this morning on my way to work.

I've gotten into some pretty gnarly wrecks with the 'Hog, but this was the first time my body made contact with the ground. A combination of bad luck, slippery pavement, and awkward tire position culminated in a tumble on my left side.

I got back up on my feet, unscathed thanks to my leather jacket. The driver who witnessed this all (But was in no way involved) did not ask me if I was okay, despite making eye contact. And for that I was actually grateful. Grateful to know there is someone else in the world with a heart as apathetic as my own.

That's not true. I would check in on a fallen cyclist. My heart is too big - just guarded.

The biggest injury was to my headlight, which somehow broke in the fall. This will be the second headlight I've demolished in the space of mere months. I think it has to do with the fact that I carry my cable lock wrapped around the handlebar, potentially interfering with the mount, or at least adding stress. The problem is the stupid lock mount for the bike doesn't fit anywhere on my little bicycle! Especially with the diagonal top tube, I lose a whole bunch of mounting real estate.

For the future: When I build my own bicycle, it will have a straight top bar. In the meantime, I may have to concede to fashion and buy myself a U-Lock. I do have to admit they are much sexier. But a cable offers more locking options! I may have to toy with the cable mount once more, it's a good day for some bike tinkering anyway.

I may have been distracted on this morning's ride. Recent events have given me reason to shed a tear. I spoke too soon about love. I left my heart in San Francisco, in his care, and he has proceeded to kill it, like a goldfish left to his supervision while I was on vacation. I will say no more, nor make any decisions regarding, as I have learned old patience. There will be either salvation or slow suffocation. I am no longer hurt. Only disappointed. The well of my heart runs only so deep.

All's I'm gonna say is...thank god for cigarettes, bicycles, and good whiskey.

I'm at your bedside, presumably to watch you die. You took a nasty spill, so I rushed over to the hospital. You said you were glad I came.

The doctors tell me conflicting things: They tell me you're doing wonderfully, they tell me you've only days to live, they tell me it's a fifty-fifty chance.

I occasionally escape the florescent lights to drag slowly on a cigarette, at home I water your plants knowing you wouldn't want to come home to find them dead.

Some days you hold my hand and smile at me, other days you start to tell me your farewells, while still others you sleep through all the sunshine only to wake up crying from a nightmare.

I try to say only encouraging things, despite what the doctors solemnly tell me in private. But sometimes I watch you kill yourself with despair and I just want to shake you and scream, "Just fucking tell yourself to live and you'll live!" I don't do it though - I let you choose your destiny. What right have I to be so selfish?

I sit at your bedside, dreaming of other times in seemingly foreign universes. Outside a stranger asks me for a light and I tell him I am out of matches.

I've begun arranging for your funeral, but never say it out loud, for my own desperate comfort, as well as yours. I've seen you peer wordlessly into a void. I know because I've looked there too.

Just how shall I let you go? I wonder.

I think I shall scatter your ashes over a nameless ocean.

At home I will still water your plants.

Writing Jan 8 2009