One Foot On the Pedal

Gazing up into the grey sky above me, I wipe my sweaty forehead on my shirt. The kids leaning on the net of the tennis courts jabber amongst themselves in rapid-fire spanish and giggle. I can make out certain words and phrases. They are calling me gay...it figures.

I think one of the kids is wondering if I will hit my pussy. I hope one of the other kids let's him know that I don't have one.

I take a pedal and positition my feet on the pegs, then give the brakes a quick self-conscious tap before whipping around the front of my flatland bike and grabbing the seat while lifting the rear wheel. By the time I have completed that I am rolling forwards with my bike in front of me. The kids start saying "Cool," in english...it figures.

After a few tricks, the kids lose interest and I can get down to bussiness, I'm not here to progress, today, only to keep the fire in my blood at a slow boil. With my life taken up as it is, I don't get to ride much these days. When I do ride, usually it is for a quick shot. Motivation is easier to find, but harder to swallow, but the dark clouds trudging my way motivate me to get in combos while I can.

I start to feel drops about fifteen minutes later, but I don't head towards the car until my glasses are covered and blurry.

I have been thinking about riding so much with the weather changing towards warmth and long day approaching. I'm glad that my daughter is tolerant of the time she spends at the park while her daddy rides his bike that almost fits her six-year-old legs. When we go to the toy store, I try to get the kids toys that will keep them occupied while I ride. All because riding has always been something that gets me through the hard times.

Riding is who I am.

Driving through the rain, I feel cheated by the short session, but realize that I am lucky for what I have. I am in contact with people everyday who have no idea about freedom, the gratification that I know. But this weekend, I will be around people who do know, despite our other differences. I can't fuckin wait.
~J

Scaled thought

Let me tell you about my car collection. I love little cars. Hot Wheels and the like. I especially love lowriders and trucks and I have a TOTAL hard-on for Chevy Impalas. Preferable a '61. I'm a grown man, but I will never lose my need for these things. I remember when I was a kid, I was always playing with little cars. I had a shitload of them. I must have gotten at least ten every holiday and anytime I had money, that was mostly what I bought. I burned them, painted them, blew them up, disassembled them, combined them with other cars, smashed them...pretty much everything but fucked them.
Now, the thing that is funny is that I don't really want real cars. I fucking hate working on them and don't really customize my cars the way a "car guy" does. I barely clean them. My current car has never been as clean as it's 1:64 scale counterparts. Funny, huh? I am sure that if I had the cash, I'd buy a nice car, maybe tinker with it...then lose interest.
Now, I buy alot of speciality cars on eBay and some of the cars I have gotten from people who are selling out their collections. I open all my cars, which is a no-no. It isn't an investment to me and I don't understand why people would just sell their cars. But I think I have a clue...

It's the hunt they love. The idea that these cars are valuable to anyone other than an over-ripe child is silly. I have bought alot of cars, but I learned to buy only the ones that I really wanted, otherwise I would spend my whole check, which won't do - I have a bike to pimp out! I used to buy every new issue in a given year...no small feat. But most of the cars, I didn't even like. So then I bought only hot rods, trucks, drag racers and lowriders. But still, I was spending too much money. After awhile I widdled it down to only collector issue cars, limited run cars. For the past year or so, I have only bought Impalas and the last sseveral cars have been '61's and '62's.

So now you know what to get me for christmas (Solstice for you Romans).

And while I'm here, Paul, return some calls, buddy. People are starting to worry.
~J

The Egyptian

The sun showered the park in a warm glow as I sat next to a young man talking about his life. I had met him only about an hour before, but I couldn't walk away from him, though I believed him to be insane or very convicing and clever. He sat in a glossy black suit with a felt bowlers hat with a worn pair of running shoes. He looked to be about twenty-three or so, but his manner lead me to think him much older. I didn't really stop to think why I thought him older, but I did. I also had the impression that he was very strong, though he was sparse of build and did nothing to make me think he was strong...at least nothing I could put my finger on.
He had told me at some point that he was over a thousand years old, but wouldn't tell me much about the past. He told me about various women he'd been married to. He never mentioned any children. I asked him many questions in an effort to gain some knowledge which I had not yet gained in my fifty-eight years of life, but he answered few of my questions. I had the impression that he was trying to answer my questions, that is to say that he thought he was answering me, but what he told me were strange summations of growing old.
"I'm sure you have noticed that the older you get, the shorter you past seems to have been," he said, "Sometimes you may think something happened only yesterday? Well, it does not end. My whole existance seems to me to have taken merely a day. I think it must be God's little joke on Those of the Long Soul, that."
Those of the Long Soul. He had refered to that many times. I asked him about it and he told me that he had met several others like him and that had been what they had called themselves. It all sounded so dramatic to me. I asked again how he had become Long Soul'd.
"Well, I don't know. That is to say, I have always been who I am, always been alive to my knowledge. God's trick, remember?" he said with a sardonic grin. "I'm sure I began sometime, but beginnings aren't real any more than endings, now are they?"
After a time, he told me of how he had tried to kill himself many times, usually after watching someone he cared about die. He said that he had loved many people and animals in his life and had watched them all die.
"I'll try to make it to your funeral," he told me, with a sideways look. He had a deep, course voice and his eyes were at once peircing green and possesed of a lazy humor. I told him I was atheist and that I would be cremated and he grinned again.
"No God, eh?" he seemed to consider. "Perhaps. That would explain much and raise more questions. To tell you the truth, I have no idea, though I have thought upon God's existance for many centuries. I think that it trully does not matter, for either you are moral or you are not and God can't make you do anything, any more than a woman can."
At dark, I told him goodbye and said that I hoped to meet him again. He smiled and said we would meet once more in my life, he would see to it.
"By the way," he said, "My name is Ankh." With that he walked away.
*****
Many years later, I had gotten into geneology and was in a library in New York researching my ancestors on my mother's side, when I came upon a picture in a newpaper from the 19th century. There stood Ankh among a group of townspeople. That photograph was clear and there was no doubt to me that Ankh had told me the truth that day so many years before. I had been seventy years old and that day of discovery changed my life.
*****
Today, I was visited again by Ankh in the hospital. I am dying, having outlived my body for any useful purpose. I am sedated for pain, but I am not completely unaware of my situation, nor my environment. My mind is still mine, so I have my memories. Ankh had been right, for as I reviewed my life, it seemed to be nothing more than a period of ten years.
Ankh had walked right up to me and without preamble told me this:
"My friend, I was not completely truthful with you, that day we talked, for I do know about God. I cannot describe to you that what you think of as God is not reality, but that the end is the same. Have no fear, though you will face death alone, you will not end. I am denied from completing that journey, but I can assure you, you have nothing to fear," he leaned closer and a trace of a grin appeared. "There is no need for you to wonder about your future, for the future is nothing more than a word. You cannot take words with you, but enjoy your feelings, my friend, for those will not be discarded." With that, he winked and strode out of the room, leaving my relatives to look after and then look at me in askance. I immediately grew weak, for there was no longer any reason to fight my bodies end.
I just hoped with an almost painful hope, as I felt my consciousness fade, that he was not pulling my leg.

So? What do you think?
~J

Demise and Vestige

What a fucking night. I took Toby to see Revenge of the Sith. I have no idea how this movie possibly rated a PG-13, but I definately thought it was closer to R. The imagery was almost horrific at points. Very intense and certainly the best movie out of the six. Not a date movie...no.

During the movie, the ex called and said that she and Abby had JUST been rear-ended. She was in the throws of a panic attack and Abby was in mild shock. It was trippy. They are fine, though a little sore. I don't know how injured Becky was, but she went to the emergency room. I have no doubt she will have a lawyer by the end of the week. Becky is probably one of the safest drivers I know (I have to be honest....it sucks) and it just goes to show you that seat-belts work and idiots are on the road along with the rest of us.

Now I am finally home and have sat down to write this before I go out to spray-paint "BBB WAS HERE!!" on all the tennis courts in the Salem/Keizer area. I leave you with a line from a song:

THOUGH THE STORM INSIDE ME /GAVE ME STRENGTH TO BE /A MIGHTY RIVER /I'M STILL NOT THE TIDE- Zero Hour

~J

Pickin' -n- Grinnin'

Joe has the hook-up. He took us to Mecca, sunday afternoon and now three times a day, I face Cornelius Pass rd and drop to my knees. The single most incredible indoor smooth spot ever. Period. While there, the flatland gods demanded a sacrifice, which Darryl obliged by offereing up his knee while in a cliffhanger g-turn attempt. The gods were appeased and the session went on. Looked like it really hurt, though.

I spent saturday night on Joe's floor, the Place of the Lysergic Vision, and suffered the trippy dream. This time, Joe turned into Mrs. Doubtfire when I turned my back, then I was in a video game fighting a digital dragon.

All in all, a great weekend that once again ended too soon. Shindig at the Hagnas Ranch is in two weeks. I'm preparing by eating dried bananna peels and doing vander-rolls into sticker bushes.
~J

Respect

I rode by myself, today. I went to the ghetto coursts and just had a chill session. The gray clouds loomed overhead as I spun. The mexican kids were cool and gave me props. I was strange. I felt a period of freedom, where I didn't have to be anywhere, do anything or be anything for anyone. I had the urge to sit on a curb and watch traffic go by, maybe eat something cool. Times like that seem to happen less and less, these days. It's not that I don't have good times, but there is always someplace to be, something that needs doing. I feel like I am always playing a role of some kind, fulfilling some need for someone else, and yet, I sometimes enjoy the control. I enjoy the idea that I have some control, though I do not in reality.

But I can control my bike...for the most part. There are a great many times I wish I could just ride all day, whenever I wanted to. There was a time whn that was possibilty for me. But then again, I am no slave. I provide for my kids and I take great pride in that. Being a father has given me a great repsect for anybody who raises a kid. I don't care if they are "bad" parents, as long as they are there for the kid EVERY time. People have no idea how hard it is, just being in that role. Nothing you do is right and you hear about everything you do wrong, if not from someone else, then from that voice in your head. I'm telling you, man...it's a hard road.

That's why I ride.
~J

Hear-ye, Hear-ye!!

Well, I got a treat session last weekend. I was at OMSI for a birthday party and then happened to have my bike with me and scooted over to Conestoga to ride with Justin, Papi, Hagness,Darrell, Tzim and Brett. Darrell was loading up as I arrived and Brett soon followed, but the rest were riding, though they had been at it for hours. Justin had obviously been riding alot, he was pulling most of his stuff. Joe and Scott had a new trick they had been working on and it's sick. Tzim is learning ashtrays.

We planned the next shindig at the Hagness ranch for the 4th of June. Sorry guys, but you have to bring your own ones this time. And no more three dollar bills, the girls get offended. One thing on the agenda that I am looking forward to is an armwrestling match between the two gunners...Scott and Paul. Scott is looking very hard right now and I'm sure his body fat level is as low or lower than Paul's plus his back looks like someone braided his muscles. I mean, damn. If I lived in P-town, I'd be taking one of his classes, just to experience pain.

So, anyway, get yourself some ones, a cozy for your beer and turn your hat backwards because there's more shit-talking, rocker-board landings and kick-ass flatland coming your way.
~J

Biblebabble

http://biblebabble.curbjaw.com/index.html

I have been checking this site out for awhile. Julie turned me onto it. I have not read the bible (nor do I care to), but I always hear about the contradictions, etc. In my younger days I liked to argue with christians about this stuff, but the guy who made this site seems to have a really solid basis for his arguements. Sarge told me there are no contradictions in the bible, but this guy seems to think otherwise.

I think Thomas would enjoy this site. He'd try to email the author and suck him into some strange debate with an undercurrent of proselytizm. Or defend why muslims are bad because some of them kill christians while dismissing the crusades because all religions have their misled.

I think the site is good. I'm interested to hear what you all think.

It's on eBay

Ok, someone wants to know Sarge's number. I have to say that he IS in fact for sale. Julie has dibs, though, so you'll have to get in contact with her. The best way to get a message to her would be to post on Sarge's blog. I hate to lose my special little cabbanna boy, but if the price is right, I'll do it.
~J

Slamfest

http://photobucket.com/albums/v516/timz73/20050508_flat/?

Pictures for you mock.
~J

WTF!!!!

http://www.flatlandaustralia.com/video/index.html

If you have not yet gotten this video of Jesse Puente, go now. It is the second from the top. If you have anything less than a broadband connection, it will take awhile, but it is well worth it. My mind is laying all around me smoldering from my incomprehension. He is a bright shining star for us old-assed flatlanders. Fucking incredible.

~J

Cue Sesame Street Theme Song...

Just had a KILLER session with the ever-nomadic Tzim. Plans are in the works for a collaboration on the Portland scene this summer.With Tzim's camera wizardry and my sarcasm, we might have something to send in.

It was Sarge, Joe, Tzim and I today. Great vibes. Four guys who ride for no other reason than to simply get the trick. When the session is that way, it doesn't matter what level you are riding at, progression is evident. I cannot wait until the next time we all get together...without Abigail running around yelling about how she has to go to the bathroom. Man, that girl...

Sarge and I had another bout of turbines. I won this round pulling two before he fired a single one off. He did more than I did, though. He is a machine.

~J

Grinding Down to Sand

Whoah. I sense a little tension between Julie and Sarge. Two people frustrated by the opposite sex squaring off for a battle of words. What amuses me is that these two know next to nothing about eachother. It is a study in assumptions. I know that Julie will not be able to not respond to things that Sarge posts and I know that Sarge will feel guilty when he learns that Julie is serious. Oh well. Hopefully they will both stop bringing Jesus up on MY FUCKING BLOG!!

We're all in constant transition. That is what my story was about. The fact that we call ourselves by the same name, follow similar patterns throughout our lives and yet, we are not the same people. Think of someone you have known for a great many years and you will get an idea of what I mean, but seeing it yourself is more subtle. Sure, I can see a vast difference between the me of 1985 and the me of 2005, but I have grown alot in the last 5 to 10 years. I can't pin down many times where I can tell you, "That is where I changed." But I know I did.

We are different people. We are strangers to ourselves. We are weak or strong depending on the circumstances of our lives, though we may not see the signs in the mirror.

~J

Not Quite Feeling Myself, Today

Here is something I wrote a few years ago. It was featured on a website http://www.nwdrizzle.com. I like this one because it kind of sums up a realization that came on me slowly.

Times they are a changin'. Times like this, I think about who I am and who I might have been at one time. And if I am the same. Am I really the same, or have I become a new me? Then what is death and why do I fear it?

Although that explains why I fear my own actions. It seems like we all strive so hard to learn and grow, but yet, we are dying with every grain of truth we glean from this world. Pale deaths. 'These are the pale deaths which men miscall their lives.' That is what he meant, I think. The pale deaths, the lies. Life is right now, at this very moment making me harder, colder, more cynical. Right now, life is making me die, giving birth to this new person who will eat my food, ride my bikes, play with my kids. This new person will answer to my name, masturbate with my dick, my hand, to his own fantasies. There used to be a me, long ago, that didn't admit to masturbating. While this me makes sure everyone knows. There was a me that didn't think about the ugly moments in my childhood. This updated me can't stand to ignore and pretend that I wasn't affected. An old me, somewhere years ago, tried not to hurt people, but did it anyway. Well, some things don't die. Except this me has seen that people hurt eachother in so many ways, that pain is unavoidable. This me thinks that maybe it's better when they just get it over with. There was a me that was alone, felt lonely, but knew that he didn't have to be alone. This me knows that to live is to feel alone much more than anyone will admit to. The world, it is cold and grey. And people face their world in many ways. There is excitement to be had, defenses to be constructed and maintained.

Pale deaths indeed.

This me has let anybody who understands into my thoughts, maybe even my heart. This me feared the pain of confusion, and survived. This me took the risks and loved, trying to deal with the inevitable pain, trying to understand. Right now, in this moment, whoever I am, I can't remember why I thought it would all be worth it. Another pale death. When you see me, I will look the same. I will joke about touching myself. I will smile and listen, but I will be someone else. This me is starting to realize that people aren't understandable. People aren't trustworthy. People aren't perfect.

Death will do that to you.

People don't have the answers. Forgive yourself, then let them go...Don't look back, you see?

The ending is kind of cheesy, but it is what I get from all that shit before it. Hopefully you get what my point is. I'm interested to know what you think. Sarge is barred from replying, since he has nothing useful to post about my writings.

~J

Amy Float

She always loved the way the birds could fly without flapping their wings. The birds seemed to float in the air and she envied them greatly. If I were a bird, she thought, I could fly away when I was scared or hurt. If I were a bird, I couldn’t love, though. Amy couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to suffer in the dull ache of a wrent heart. She sometimes wondered to herself if she didn’t set herself up for this pain, because in the end she always seemed to feel this way, no matter what she did.
The hurt was deep, dull and somehow addicting. Even if I knew I would feel this way in the end, she scolded herself, I would still try…still open my heart. Still suffer. The burning from start to finish, pain and ecstasy. Amy thought that she was somehow dysfunctional and yet, she took some perverse pride in that thought. She could blame the men she had loved or she could blame herself for not being someone those men could love.
"Who knows?" she said aloud.
This was what the songs were about, this pain, she thought. It was somewhat depressing to think about so many people going about love the same way, suffering the same fate. Surely there was someone, somewhere that felt the same as her; that was capable of loving her. Why couldn’t she find that man? What a waste of time, she thought, what a complete fucking waste of time.
Clouds seemed to be the destination as the birds floated upwards and away.

----------------------

Before anybody freaks out, I do not think I am a woman, nor do I think I am a bird. This story is not a cry for help or a plea for Jesus' intervention. This is the kinds of things I write, and I hope you enjoy them. Please leave a comment if you are so inclined or moved.
~J

Home, Sweet Home

Looking around the bushes, a group of kids that lived near me watched the Cholos beat a prospective member repeatedly in the face. There were five men holding the one guy and the gang leader, Rick, was beating him. I watched as fists connected many time, the Rick's shoulders rippling with effort. The man was bleeding like I had never seen. He wasn't struggling at all, though he was yelling, obviously in pain. One of the guys doing the holding noticed us and Rick turned around and started yelling at us, then turned back and continued to work on the stomach. I was scared, so I started to leave.
One of the older boys must have felt some excitement over the scene, because he started trying to pick a fight with the younger kids, but my friend Kevin told him to shut the fuck up, which he would pay for later when the boy started to be favored with the Cholos. We left and later went to the park, because we would have to walk by Rick's house, again. The man they had been beating was sitting on the porch, holding his eye in his hand, just outside the socket, waiting for the ambulance. I new it before that day, but at that moment, I resolved to never mess with any mexican person ever. I can't remember how much later, but Rick's little brother was dragged behind a car for a little ways, shredding his back. The scar was incredible and, of course, he was very proud of it. When he showed it to us, I remember thinking that anyone who would willingly be drug behind a car in an effort to get the car to stop in order for the driver to get beat is not someone I could trust. We watched a cholo beat a police officer until other units arrived, beating the man nearly unconcious. I remember my mom was angry that the police were beating the cholo, but I was glad they did, but I knew it meant that the police were to be feared. I have no doubt that those men are all dead.
And, yet, I have a strange respect for them. They definately took care of their own, pretected many of the local kids in ways I didn't know about. A few years after we moved out of town, a dead body turned up in the backyard of the house I had lived in. It had been buried there. The corpse was of a Cholo and it was meant (I have no doubt) to send a message.
It seems like small towns have worse drug problems, whether people know about the problems or not. In Yakima, in my neighborhood, everyone was aware. Violence exists. Drugs exist. Gangs exist. All these things thrive on poverty, and Yakima definately had it's share.
~J