After an initial hesitance,  I motioned towards the bike leaning charmingly by the fence of the park. No, that’s not how it was. Let me start again. I was walking home. Long road, crunchy gravel, listless night and startling footsteps. Bus to the train to the car to the side to the, what? If dusk was the golden hour, then this was about on the level of emeralds. Deep purple skies and an ever so slightly damp road under my bare feet. Don’t ask. I’m still a bit hazy on the details.

I’d finally decided to detour through the side street. Good move, yeah, I know. The park began. The grating grilling iron fence stood out as though sitting on the base of a pop up book. I half expected the ground under me to start turning, the camera to zoom out to a visual of me walking on a turning wheel based on said book. You know the kind I mean. Like the one in that song, where that girl singer-songwriter person plays the guitar and sings with a spring and a smile echoes on her lips and she knows exactly how much to part those lips as she sighs. I begun to whistle.

Heard a rumbling sound in the distance and assumed it was going to rain. I hoped it would rain. My feet were getting a bit sore from the still hot tarmac. How could the road retain so much heat after so long? I don’t know, I remember reading somewhere about how cities are like heat sinks and that the temperature in the heart of a city can be even a couple of degrees hotter than further out in the less dense areas. Who would have thought that we would have concrete sponges. Seems almost fitting though that the heart of the city would be hotter than the outskirts. Like a pulsating core. The city would then become a tacky metaphor for life and how at the center of our beings lies some red loving. Screw that. I waited for that rain instead.

A gush of wind and leaves and fury spun me suddenly and I was left wondering what just happened. I steadied myself against the fence stakes only to be facing a plain bike about ten stakes down. It’s reflectors blinked blankly at me. I was being looked up and down, sized up, judged, weighed and graded by it. I was not pleased. With a just as sudden change of attitude the bike slumped casually against the fence. It seemed I passed. This is where I tried to start earlier. Because, really, it was a rather charming bike. No seriously, I feel that really is the best way to describe it’s behaviour. Charming. I felt motioned towards. So I did motion towards. I approached it with a slight backstep. As in my feet dragged behind, unwilling participants in my attempts at curiosity.

I slowly grasped the left handlebar, and the tassels swayed softly in the wind. Ran my hand down the cool metal, sleek, green tinge. The seat sprung up and purred quietly. Wide wheels yawned below and rolled a bit, gently under the pressure of my touch. A quick white basket was strapped smartly up front and what seemed to be a lone speaker, apparently on, was snugly tucked into the corner of it. I tugged at the bike a bit, and it willingly turned along. Pushing it up the gradual slope, I was urged on by it. Now walking, jogging, running, bolting tumbling after it up the hill, pulling away from the side walk and park to the centre of the wide split road.

As I hit the top, my feet swung into the air, right slipping swiftly on the first pedal, left leg flying over the back of the seat, landing fervently onto the other. The gears swung as they pleased, the bike churned ahead. I was the rumble. The furious turning of wheels and person perched atop.

I was the flight. This is your captain speaking, we are now cruising at ten thousand miles above Oh-My-Happiness. As we finally left the park, I fingered through my pockets looking for something to gnaw on. Thinking is always better with something to chew on. Even thoughtless thinking. My careless pedaling was subconscious and I followed as the bike led. Wandering, meandering thinking. Balancing on the other hand is an issue when rummaging through yourself. Broken toothpick, found, discarded. I thumbed a music-player in my pocket and it conveniently snapped into the plugs on the speakers.

Found: One Player. Done.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Definetely Done.

I was was the wind now.

After a brief holiday, I return!
Moving on to bigger or brighter, slightly or unsightly things.

A story that gives sense
(an anonymous tale I was told by a friend)

A potentate asks his wise men to compile all the knowledge in the world in one place for his son to learn. The wise men go away for a year and come back with 12 volumes. “Too long, make it shorter,” says the potentate. The wise men go away for another year and return with a single volume and once again the potentate says “too long, make it shorter.” They leave for yet another year and return with a single sheaf of paper. The potentate reads it. It has only one line that says:
“This too shall pass”

—————
– How can you know so surely who you are? – she quietly whispered. Then he took her hand and placed it on his chest and said, — Because this is real, and this, now, is where I am. – She never did understand that confidence. That staunch belief in tangible moments. Everything seemed to crunch in her mouth like smoke.

Coffee bones and glasses thin. Dancing slow and waking dim.
So many unfinished projects. Half eaten ideas slowly smelling faintly of mothballs.

Picker upper pucker up.
This is how we pick us up.
Tiny strings and shiny things.
Golden rings we thoughtlessly sing.

I think I found a better world,
In between the threads,
That held together this and that,
Just beneath our beds.
—————