september 30, 2002 - 07:24 - odwalla withdrawals
- dsl circuit: check
- vpn tele: check
- home lan: check
- ip phone: check
after piling computers and networking equipment into a dark room of my
home, providing power and bandwidth, i have built a home office.
once unassuming and white, the far wall now clicks and whirls with an array
of dancing LEDS, visual diagnostics for the time impaired.
it's like disco, and i shall call it my laboratory.
(pronounced liked dexter: la-bore-a-torie)
it is in this glow that i now sit, staring out of a rain-streaked window,
and prepare for my first day as an honest-to-goodness 'telecommuter.'
boy, i could sure use an odwalla-booster right now.
september 26, 2002 - 07:27 - stumbling at the finish
as if nearing the end of a long run, my body bends in desperation; two nights
now i have returned to my temporary lodging, fallen face first into my corner,
and slept motionless for over 12 hours.
for some, this deep relationship with prone unconciousness is normal.
for me, a brief 4-6 hours a night, that is normal.
admittedly, every once in a while my body screams for such treatment, but
this is different. this is not the deep, wholesome sleep that
leaves the body energetic and fresh; rather, the sick-weak sleep, unfulfilling,
yet difficult to wake from anyway.
i imagined my limbs as sap, adhesive to sheets, unframed and unanimated
as i called them each in turn to drag me to the shower.
i console myself; things have been difficult for some time now; it's ok
to feel exhaustion. yet, in the back of the mind, the thought
lingers... perhaps my shadows have finally caught me?
only time will tell.
september 25, 2002 - 17:32
an interesting snippet from her online journal:
"it's also to funny that i'm referred to as "momo" amongst his
friends. awww i'm his momo. "
new love is so endearing! -makes me happy just to
read about it... but, girls aren't momo's, they're, well, grrls!
(aren't they?)
sidenote: a week and a half; a lifetime for some, merely a
breath for others. for me, that's how long i can say
that i had the coolest momo that i knew of...
still so new in my life, and already tomahome is already surpassed.
*shrug* momma said that you can never stay on top forever.
september 25, 2002 - 17:07 - watch us fall
so close to the end, time seems to slow down. i find myself
helplessly hindered, as if caught in slow motion, falling.
(seems like everybody is falling at the moment)
its hard not to smile as my present environment is ripped from me;
an antiquated full-body bandaid that has touched my flesh for too long.
...off with the old, i'll grow some new.
in the meantime, i guess i best get back to the Xevent dumps.
--it's almost refreshing to go through stacks of this useless
information... makes me feel like a proper engineer again!
september 22, 2002 - 20:21 - fast forward
it happened. this weekend, i became one of them. one of those
obnoxious people that insist on riding a motorbike to a rally designed for
motorscooters.
it was rather innocent, really. on saturday morning, as i prepared to ride my
ss180 the 100+ mi to attend the coastal event, willpower folded and i gave in to the
new yellow grin in my garage. after helpless ruminiations during my week
away, i just could not bear to leave the new wheels idle.
it was far too easy to reason myself into submission: '...an easy paced jaunt through
the countryside followed by winding mountain roads to the coast beyond?'
--surely it seems the perfect opportunity to get to know this new machine; to feel
it breathe, and learn to breathe through it.
recognizing the implications of my forthcoming transgression, i console myself.
'it'll be okay. they will understand. it's a new toy,
it's meant to be ridden.'
so it came to pass, and the ensuing afternoon found me tooling along in the back of the
pack, idling in third, looking out for the lessor bikes. (does perception
change that readily?)
at one point, as the road spread out directly before us, as if intent to pierce the sky
itself, patience folded, and the bike spoke to me with a voice none could hear.
relinquishing the responsibility of sweeper, i began to weave through the pack, readily
building velocity, finally allowing tomahome to taste his powerband.
as i passed the fastest scooters, those that lead the pack, and spread a bunched trail
thin like a string of lights, i bettered their velocity by an easy 20mph, now encroaching
a casual 85.
click. 4th.
time and space began to fold around me as my right hand continues to roll back.
the very angles of peripheral vision spin down from the 150' allowed by the helmet, to
an ever diminishing sum that exponentially fell to oblivion. farm houses and
pastures faded into a solid stripe of orange, which in turn melted to the blue above,
a canvas of solid color pierced only by the perfect line of black before me.
click. 5th.
i can no longer hear the engine, nor feel it between my legs. it is as if
the bike has actually been lulled to sleep, and together we dream of flight,
a controlled flight, as the road no longer feels like road, but a string that guides
our gentle arc through infinity.
it was the thickness of air. the very density of it, that pulled me back.
fingers that fought to reach for the clutch, fought to cut a path through
this invisible matter that fought back. i glanced down to see what
encumbered me. i glanced down to see nothing.
as i look up again, my eyes trail past forsaken dash; tach replies: 'still not redline.'
collective conciousness thinks, 'still not in top gear.' yet the speedo
reminds, 'still doing double the speed limit.' double.
it is as if i'm waking from a dream, a single conscious thought that pierces a
false reality forever, and pulls me back as everything falls from the present to
a past that never happened.
'no, i'll not need sixth today.'
as if hearing words unspoken, right hand contemplates, then agrees, grudgingly
rolling forward. the string that guides our flight flattens, becomes road
below, encouraging the bike to run again, and the engine roars to life with
an unfamiliar pitch.
lower. steadier. thundering. its noise fills my helmet with a
mechanical rhythm; a resonant beat that slows as the world shapes itself around me.
cows and cars find form in stripes of orange, and clouds seem to apparate,
breaking the blue in the sky above.
...and it dawns on me that is not the bike that thunders in my helmet, but my heart.
soon, the spent bullet is returned to its barrel; my foot has again found third
and the speedo, a steady 50mph. scooters surge forth, then past, as i fall
back to my previous role as 'sweep.'
i am in a haze, and continue on without thought or feeling, save one; as a
bird that has finally known the intoxication of flight, i shall never be satiated
with the crude informality of hopping again.
september 18, 2002 - 19:16 - ruminations of a guilty conscience
a lyric, (and in fact the song title), of a track of ladytron's new album is 'cracked lcd.'
i've been listening to this track all day (off and on) in mp3 format via itunes shuffle;
each time it came on, i swore they were saying "get the cd."
*blush*
september 18, 2002 - 07:55 - past 21 and no fun
likes:
- walking behind people with large glasses, and getting to see, if just for a
moment, the world the way they are seeing it. (this effect is especially
enhanced if they have a very thick perscription, or they are sporting colored
lenses.)
- headphone selections that make you dance in the park like you're gay even though
you're not so inclined, and in a bad mood.
dislikes:
- wrist hurt disease delay-ache. (this is the dull ache you feel at the
end of the day. if you stop typing, and 'cool-down', you're in for a
big owie. of course, you can delay the pain by continuing to type, but this
will make it worse in the long run. damn terrible decision.)
- headaches that last for 3 days
- people that peep over the cube wall behind you. (yeah, just try and tell
me that you've never fantasized about having a retina reshaping laser mounted
on your shoulder!)
september 17, 2002 - 18:02 - TOM-A-HOM-E!
so. this weekend, the impossible happened; the scooterboy grew up, and
bought himself a proper bike. well, maybe not proper* (in the
eyes of some of my super-crotch-rocket friends), but damn if it's not a motorbike.
...and how!
after months of serious searching (and years of casual fantasizing), the ultimate
scooter transition vehicle now sleeps in my garage: two-stroke.
kick-start. lightweight. not of this decade. YELLOW!
this is not my bike. this kinda looks like my bike. i will
fix this soon.
perhaps yamaha said it best:
"now, after fifteen years of keeping our name in front of the public, we thought
it was time to return the favor. introducing the kenny roberts special.
or, if you prefer, the RZ350. yes, it's water cooled. yes it's the fastest
best handling two-stroke 350 ever. and yes, it's street legal.
after all, why should kenny have all the fun."
yes... why should kenny have all the fun?
proper* : of a displacement greater than or equal to 1000cc's, and
made within the last two years.
september 12, 2002 - 10:26
fav. quote from last night's movie:
'like everyone in france hates me right now.'
now repeat it again, but with a really bad, fake french accent masking a kansas drawl.
brilliant, just brilliant.
september 11, 2002 - 14:52
dave, the moon man, says: 'the lighting is all wrong, and even suggests studio...'
ian goddard says: 'um, no'
still, some people feel it necessary to try and impose their doubts on old frail men, and
then get whiny when they have to deal with the consequences.
- i hope i'm that tough when i'm 72.
- i hope that i have something as equally cool to fight about.
september 11, 2002 - 08:02 - getting into the spirit
likes:
- walking in early morning fog with a turtle-neck and bose headphones.
- ice-cold carrot juice from orange-capped container.
- sitting down, logging in, just as the phone rings; serendipity?
dis-likes:
- the two seconds before you actually crawl out of bed, when it seems so
cold outside and knowing that right now is the most comfortable you'll
be all day.
- adding another empty odwalla container to the growing pyramid, realizing
how much i pay for this habit.
- noticing that there is already voicemail in the queue, before i've even
logged in.
september 9, 2002 - 15:02 - what was my passion?
yesterday, it rained in portland, while a man with one arm raced his ducati in the
pro circuit class, his first time on the racetrack since he used to have two.
at that very same moment, a 12 year old girl, somewhere in colorado, stood in
her bathroom and practiced stacking
cups focused upon defending her title during the upcoming state championships.
september 6, 2002 - 16:05
jack calls his local service provider to order DSL for his home office...
QTech: 'based on our calculations, the options for your phone line are..."
jack: 'give me all you got'
Qtech: "weeell, the fastest service is..."
jack: 'not nearly fast enough; give us it!'
Qtech : "oh, okay. what kind of computer will you be using to
connect to the internet?"
jack: 'all of them.'
Qtech : (condescnding tone) "no sir, i meant, what platform will you
be using from home? mac or windows?"
jack: 'yes. oh, and linux and unix too.'
Qtech : (monotone) "mac? what version of the macintosh do you have?"
jack: 'all of them. i was just installing 10.2'
Qtech : (condescending tone) "i'm sorry sir, we do not support 10.2,
however, we do support macOS 8.6 and greater."
jack: mumble
Qtech : "excuse me?"
september 4, 2002 - 20:13 - watch the air rush in
so soon after space is made, a potential suitor is found to fill it?
/an improbable unfolding of events, an improbable partnership./ fate?
could it be a sign, an invitation to accept the unexpected? is it just a new
twist on an old theme? logical or passionate? maybe it is just the
caffiene, poisoning my brain.
september 3, 2002 - 20:21 - remembering you, how you used to be
had the unfortunate experience of relenquishing ownership of another
scooter this weekend... jenny, my trusty, rusty, bulletproof vbb
now sleeps in the garage of another.
somewhat out-dated, jan 2002. jenny is the red one.
i had considered doing this for some time... swimming in guilt for
my inability (time/money) to attend to her needs as i would like to have.
for not treating her as she was meant to be treated...
on a hi-note, i have found a most suitable adoptive parent, a longtime
scooter fan with the desire to nurture and no existing distractions.
still, in the vacuum of her absence, my mind reels with the experiences
we had together. not nearly my prettiest, or fastest, or..
just simply the machine that i had the most adventures on.
chico. sacramento. santa cruz. monterey. san jose.
san francisco. portland. most recently seattle;
jenny and i, we went places together.
i will miss her.
september 2, 2002 - 10:34 - breathing with bones unbroken
whilst driving, i have always come onto accidents with a morbid sense
of curiosity.... fascinated by how metal and flesh can twist together,
as if dancing for an instant, and just that instant, until they return
to a new kind of stasis, a state change from just moments before.
this is usually the case with car crashes.
yesterday, as we came upon just such a scene mere moments after it occured,
my stomach found the familiar flip that comes with seeing a bike on it's side.
moments later, it's clear that it's a vespa, and i'm accelerating towards
the abrupt angles that confused traffic lies, just to skid to a stop at the
scene myself. off the bike, i forget the ignition, and it will run
until the fuel is exhausted.
to my right, twisted italian steel. the bike is barely recognizeable
but the plates are custom. i know this person.
huge shitbox chevy, front left corner punched into the frame. hood
dented, windshield broken, and a million refracted images of a confused
driver making faces through the glass.
running now, to the far side, there's no time to brace myself for what i'm
going to find. imagination doesn't dissapoint. a friend, a
puddle, and several limbs with new angles.
'mj, it's okay, we're here with you and
paremedics are on their way.'
crystal blue eyes set against skin that is transparent with shock;
he's looking right at me, but can't really see.
'who's there?'
paramedics soon arive, and he is escorted away. only then do
i realize my own scooter is still running, and upon silencing it,
have a moment to survey the scene.
it's pretty clear that this truck whipped into traffic, agressively
trying to cross a busy street. --with the only skid marks
of the entire accident being three feet after the impact, it's clear
that the driver didn't even see mj until he was halfway past the
windshield.
broken scooter, the same steel gray as the street itself, lies in a
million little pieces plus one whilst bleeding gas, oil and acid.
at the moment, the composition strikes me as a a kind of morbid
parallel to it's owner, whisked away just a moment before.
with the front end is crumpled like yesterday's newspaper, we can't even
find the gear selector to begin hunting for neutral. hopelessly stuck
in gear, we have no choice but to drag it from the street to the nearest
curb; our hair stands on end as steel grates concrete.
the truck driver is released, then drives away. we all stare in
dumbfounded silence as his unregistered vehicle grows smaller, and the
screech of his fender-pressed-tire is drowned by the passing traffic.
she follows the ambulance, jb returns home to fetch his truck,
the small crowd goes back inside their homes and i stay with the bike
and try to get it ready for loading.
it's hard to believe that this was once a vespa; that jb just
finished building it, only a month or so ago. there is no hope
at the controls, so i pull his tool bag from his glovebox through
the legshields, and begin to disassemble the selector box.
he was in forth. no surprise there. by the looks of the
bike, he had to have been doing 40-50mph; i have never seen
one so twisted.
an experienced rider, (over 10 years), and still no skid mark? no
evasive manouver?
i shudder to myself. how many times has this almost
happened to me? how many times have i fanned out the back
end with bmx brutality in a desperate attempt to avoid some moronic
driver?
the worst part? even though he was only wearing a half-shell,
(luckily no damage to head, or neck), it's clear that all the safety
gear in the world wouldn't have prevented his injuries.
there was no slide. there was no fumble. he drove
into a wall doing 50 mph, flipped over that wall, and then fell
to the street on the far side. this crash was all about
momentum, and the body's inability to deal with sudden changes of.
he's lucky though. if he got the driver in the door, where the
cab is 3 feet higher, he might not have made it over the top.
he might have taken that entire hit with one brutal release of energy.
...and that might have killed him.
in the end? i was too sick to play scooter games, and went
straight to the barbecue, to drown myself in orange soda.
in the corner, i stare at my arm, not broken in three places.
my thigh, not cut to the bone. my calf, not broken twice over.
i breathe deeply and feel my lungs push out against ribs (also
not broken), and remind myself how careful i must continue be.
(not that it matters sometimes. not that it mattered
that time.)
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