I used to write constantly. I love writing. I suppose lately I haven't written much because of the change in career direction, but I think maybe writing will bring me back to what really makes me happy. Tell me what you think, and where I should go with this.... I have ideas. And I have tons of started writing s and poems and such... so yeah.
Seconds are cut into little particles of dust and thrown back into those uncovered holes on the human body. The standard passing of time, which Einstein deconstructed and rationalized through his theory of relativity and so forth, seems completely irrational. Once the body no longer engages with this dimension post-three, it no longer exists. I guess the detachment from reality is the first aspect of mountain biking which I so dearly allot my passions. William Golding's depiction of man, haunts me as I caress and beat nature's obstacles. One approaches another on the trail, you can only hope for quickness of reaction and thought, and that simple development of coevolution which we forget about while we aren’t experiencing such vigor.
Sometimes he yells at me, “Wait up.” He’s behind me, the cracking of sticks and smashing of leaves… I can hear him, riding behind me. Watch out for passers, listen to make sure he’s still behind; no big holes, or sharp turns. But through this chaos I always seem to wonder about him….
Eight p.m. There was this one day. A Colloquium of constant patriarchs. A colloquium of constant children. We gathered as we always do, in that weird old fashioned way. Sitting around this colossal oak, probably from one of the surrounding forests, or perhaps from Ohio, laughing and toasting, patriarchs at one end and children at the other, the Guthries are oblivious to the status quo while in meeting situations. The waiter asks, “Who got married?” I sat, listening to the clinking glasses and sipping on some diet coke, the quiet sister. Even our relatives sometimes forgot our names, my sisters and I, which always bothers me. The lights were sparkling and the room was heating up, in all of its drunken glory, we sat hating those excruciating minutes that our inebriated parents still had control over such capricious little lives. What were they discussing, in a completely different world, I wasn’t satisfied with either.
Noon. Hot. Sunny. Gross. People in large groups make me nervous and self conscious, and insecure. We opened those large threatening, white, Quaker doors, and watched as some nurses showed us to his room. Who is he? I’ve heard stories, given hugs, listened to him speak about navigation, sailing, medical issues…. The room was dark, and dimmed every little sense of sparkle from any sort of sparkly lights. He took my hand, I didn’t know, that disease which ate his logic and left only the senses to disappear slowly. He couldn’t see, but I smiled, a silent scream. Run, toward some sort of death free dream. They stood filling the room like swollen cotton balls. I could hear sobs from the bathroom in the hall. Is this how everyone dies? Sterile.
My father never mentions his father, unless he's had more than 4 martinis, or a bottle of wine. I don't want my life to go down this way, a sinking ship.
