the shivers and the widows and the big fuzzy killers

every morning as i raise the blinds, i am met by the world and the twisted body of this rather large spider. it has lived there for 9 {?} months now, and i have grown to like its presence. but i do not like spiders. let me state that again: i do not like spiders. "daddy long legs" are of course fine, but if we slip too far from that category, my comfort zone with these creatures falls quickly to the floor. i have on more than one occassion nearly driven my car up onto the sidewalk, because the spider on the windshield has fallen onto my lap. i admittedly fall into a state of mild panic. i cannot really explain the feeling, as it is completely unique. while i recognize this to be quite irrational, i struggle with it when it arises. perhaps the lingering of my biological DNA? rememberances of aeons ago when the bugs would often kill us feeble humans?

but regardless of science, they scare me. the way they move, so disjunct. during college in Davis, i used to shudder at the sight of the black widows. goddamn. but then i was also {and continue to be} strangely drawn to them. like children drawn to scary movies that give them bad dreams. what is it, that we find so alluring about these things that give us the shivers?

i often look at them {especially the big ones} and try to imagine myself grabbing it, and tossing it alive into my mouth. crunching down and swallowing it. perhaps if i began that practice, my fears would wash away. probably not though. i'd probably just be vomiting a lot. i couldn't get a clear shot of this one, but somehow it looks so beautiful to me all blurred out. more like a dream and less real. a spider in the sky. in parts of the rainforest, there are spiders the size of dinner plates. big fuzzy killers that eat rats and the like. god help me.

numbers

i break over the top of the hill and sweep into the turn, feeling the warm air as i leave the canopy of redwoods. standing on the corner is an old man, in the most beautiful blue sweater; his hair unkempt and gray, soaring through the wind. he holds on his left hand a small white bird, that as i look back over my shoulder flies off into the sky. it is a snowflake rising up, a wooden boat upon the water. white like the missing teeth of girls we kiss in our dreams. i stop and watch as it drifts further into the blue eternity, and think of my own forthcoming flight. we are all birds inside no?

and my legs felt strong. they have become the center of my physical movement replacing even the slight gestures of hand. saturday i rode 101 miles which seemed so terribly far. i had my moments of relative despair, but overall felt grand. thankfully, i felt less tired upon my arrival home after 101 than i did the previous weekend of 90. all of these numbers in my head.

90. 101. 200. 15. 16. 1. 31. 33. 25. 3. 9.

they all mean so much. they are my new secret language, my tunnel of the night. a tunnel of light. i sit typing and hear the mail drop. paper to ground. i like the flat sound it makes.

the wrong hole

so today, the ride was moving with such grace and strength. it was a fish in water, running the current, for the hills meant nothing to my legs. as i crested the first big ridge, i raised my arms and stretched {yes, i did in my brain pretend that i had just won the tour de france} looking out at the sweeping valley to my left, littered with birds, when a relatively large bug flew into my mouth, and straight down the hole so to speak. i think it was a fly, but may have been a bee. i attempted to cough it back up, but was unsuccessful. it happened so fast. so i laughed and rode on, drinking copious amounts of water in the hopes that it would float down the river into my belly.

but no sir! this little creature went down the wrong hole {in the wrong hole} and i thusly spent the next two hours drinking water and eating nuts hoping to push it down, with minimal success. i coughed and wheezed. a determined little bugger. i pictured some cartoon version of this poor thing's death, all mixed up in the tunnel of my intestines, drowning and burning in stomach fluid. yuck.

i have since showered, eaten lunch, and stretched, but i swear i can still feel it. perhaps it has dug its little bug feet into the walls of my throat and is climbing its own battle in the hills. but we are here with spring. everything just seems to open up. the uncurling of a closed fist. a flower. young deer, on the hillside with their mothers, eating at the trees, their teeth the gentlest of typewriter sounds. the softest of clacking.

the difference between 90 and 200 is vast.

yesterday, i rode 90 miles. goddamn. my intention {goal} was 100 but i started a bit late, and was thusly concerned with losing light. when i reached three hours, i was only out 45 miles and i had to turn and head back.

oh the hills. oh.

there were some problems, not the least of which were the big trucks, towing the big boats, to the lake, but at some point it all becomes a blur. i arrived home completely spent, though i do know inside myself that i could have kept going. i stretched, showered, ate, slept. at this point, i have no idea how i will ride 200 miles in one day for the double century that myself, mike, and matt will be doing, but i suppose i will just do it. life is like that i guess. we do things which sometimes we think we cannot. the payoff is often immeasurable. i keep being reminded these days that my brain just isn't as strong as other parts.

the heart for example.

i figure it takes quite a bit of heart to ride a bike 200 miles in one day. thump, thump, thump.

alone with the spring.

the warm weather continues. my bicycle and i rejoice. hallelujah i say, hallelujah.

"nothing else crosses my mind except
the transparency of summer. i sing only of the wind,
and history passes in its carriage,
collecting its shrouds and medals,
and passes, and all i feel is rivers.
i stay alone with the spring."

~neruda

letters on paper

i look for poetry to place here tonight, but nothing jumps from the pages. i turn them slowly, quickly, slowly. i want to find words, but nothing calls out. how is it that they jump so readily sometimes, and lie dormant others? sometimes, poetry means nothing to me. nothing. only a collection of letters on paper. i could look all night and see no meaning. i don't like to admit that, but it's true.

or perhaps my vision is blurred by new bicycles. days of sandals, walking around san francisco with andrea. sitting on a porch with matt talking about how far two hundred miles really is. spring. yes, spring.

there, in the water

i was going to write about my new bike, and the beauty of the headbadge which guides its way forward. i was going to write about how i have such mixed feelings about playing a show tomorrow night at the makeout room. i was going to write about the wind. the slow growth of my hair.

but then i discover that Spalding Gray's dead body was found in the East River, and i grow sad. i don't know why i grow any more saddened by this, than i do my friend heather's tales of dying children in Africa. {she is there working as a medic in refugee camps in Liberia} i suppose because Liberia seems so far away and miserable beyond my conception. so different from my own reality, that i cannot taste it. i guess Spalding Gray was closer to home; i've seen him speak many times. and so, what do i say? people come and go, they come and go. some of them we meet, and love, and laugh with, and laugh at, and read their books, and hear their songs. others just come and go. six year old children that die in the arms of a relief worker in the front seat of a car bumping its way around Africa. Spalding, there in the water. bloated, and full of stories untold.

today the wind is here. my hair grows slowly. my bicycle is beautiful. tomorrow i will sing and play guitar. kristina will play cello. people will hear my songs. the music.

a long way from here

sunday arrives. the morning begins quietly, as i lay in bed pondering the idea of making tea and climbing onto my roof to watch the sunrise. which i now wish i had done. ah well, the flannel sheets won as they often do. i hear the birds singing this morning, trilling in the trees outside my window, and i wrap my arms around the dawn of spring. oh glorious spring. if there was one season, that truly owned my heart, spring it would be. perhaps the timing of shaving my head was perfect; the growth of new things. i miss my hair, but the change is good. it is the collection of these changes in our lives, some big and some small, that often give us the zest and fizzle that we need.

i for one, have just undergone the change of riding a new bicycle. yesterday, was undeniably one of the greatest bike rides of my life. after 8 years, the Klein is put to rest. last thursday, Mike and i drove down to Palo Alto to retreive our new bikes. {at Palo Alto Bicycles which is without question the best bike shop in the world with the best bike shop employees...more about that later} anyway, i am speechless. the difference in comfort is immeasurable. i will find the words, but for now they are trapped. trapped in the fact that it is predicted to be nearly seventy degrees here today, and my bike is currently sitting a mere ten feet from me. oh yes.

one word of caution though: touring bikes {no matter how kick-ass they are} do not handle the same as road bikes when descending steep and sharp turns. not even close. after skidding out, narrowly avoiding crashing into the rock wall, and then the oncoming car, i found myself laughing. perhaps they make them this way not only to support the weight of panniers.....perhaps they make them this way to remind us to slow down and enjoy the world as it passes by. perhaps they make them this way to remind us that life is not a race, and Maine is a long way from here.