Do This More:

I was on the bus yesterday. Feeling a bit surly and there were three irritating chatty-cell-phony 18 year old girls sitting across the aisle. The bus pulled up to a stoplight. It was hot. Hot. An old guy was hunkered on the sidewalk bent over his dog who had collapsed in the heat. The bus driver said something and the three girls--who were apparently on their way to the gym--pulled out their water bottles and got off the bus to help the pup out.

In the end, the dog got some water and was able to stand up again, the old guy seemed pretty thankful and the three girls had done something to be proud of. A tip of the hat, ladies. We could all do this sort of thing a little more often.

Camelias

The koi have drank the water down.

They are ready to walk across the mud,

stretching to see the unmurky garden living

beyond the pond, just there, ready,

the fish that have only flickered thus far

cast themselves out, spawning toward

flowers, gasping to kiss blazing camelias.

If the Desert Coughs Me Up...

So, I'm taking off on the moto today. More or less pointed east for the next 3k-or-so miles. A few nights of staring into a campfire, a few days of rolling on, then Colorado to pay a visit to the Wessels. No plans after that, but they'll come together.

I'm still not sure If I'll just bounce off of South Carolina once I get there. My financial aid hasn't come through yet, and the guy I've been talking to about an apartment is suspiciously silent recently. That and the Northwest is so damn nice...

Ah, well... At least it should be a fun ride. Who knows, maybe I'll get a college degree out of it.

Chow

Moto Mayhem and the Urge to Completely Disappear

Back from Europe and I've decide that that trip is all mine. All three cheesy, winey, rainy, racey, weeks of it. You can't have it. All you get is this fragment of a poem I wrote on a hike up to the Austrian/Italian Border:

From "In the Hohe Tauren:"

...we flee into the mountain's

held breath. To be drawn in, to disappear,

to become ghosts, ourselves wisps of fog,

mountain's breath, remembered in legend

smeared wet onto red-painted waystones, cairns,

in dust under floorboards, peering through cracks

up, up at the promised land marked by a cracked

shrine to Christ.

Now for the good stuff:

The Old BMW is about as tuned as it is going to get for this trip. Valves, points, timing, bearings... Knocking on wood... Thursday is the departure, heading south to Ashland to get a final fix of Matt Sheehy, then pointing east for the duration. I can't say I'm looking forward to the hot march through Nevada and Utah, but with friends on the other side of the desert in Colorado, it gives me something to look forward to. In any case, camping out there should be fantastic with clear air and stars...

I'm also fighting the urge to just drop off the face of the Earth for a little while. The end is so close for classes, but is seems like the least important thing to do right now. Onward, and as it is written somewhere in my genetics, Fortune Assists the Daring... Guess I'll dare a few months longer. I've been pretty fortunate so far.

It is all a bit rambling and there's lots more introspective bullshit on my mind that I won't bore you with. Suffice it to say, if you're reading this, there's a 50/50 chance we'll be having a drink together soon.

Thanks for checking in.

Over and out.