Archive for the ‘Traveling’ Category

I have discovered the three insect laws of the motorcyclist:

Insects are better than a doctor at testing your reflexes; they will home in on your knee like a marine sniper causing you wildly kick your foot in the air while loudly exclaiming “Yow! What the f*$%k was that!”

Which brings us rule #1:  Bugs f*$%king hurt.

Some of the larger insects, moths, dragon flies, giant effing bees, will eschew the practice of their smaller cousins and instead of aiming for your more vulnerable points (shins, fingers, etc.) they will fly straight at your face, splatting spectacularly all over your visor. This causes you to silently cuss all of insect kind and squint through the smeared bits while praying you don’t hit anything.

Rule # 2: the larger the bug the more likely it will splat all over your face. (And if you’re not wearing a helmet, God help you)

There is a species of insect out there that is the green beret/navy seal of its kind. This insect is known as F.B.B. or “fucking bastard bug”. This name arises from the chant issued after you, the victim, have just had said F.B.B. fly up your sleeve and wage unholy war on your now unprotected flesh, biting you approximately 40 times and working its way perilously close to your waistband before you even realize you are under attack. This causes you to start issuing war cries and flail your flesh like it’s the last thing keeping you from Heaven while simultaneously clamping the brakes and swerving to the side of the road. Once safety parked you proceed to swiftly undress and flinging your cloths about while jumping around and slapping at yourself; looking somewhat like a masochistic chicken attempting flight. This provides no end of amusement for the fucking bastard bug and various passers-by.

Which brigs us to the final rule , Rule # 3: Bugs are assholes


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Unfocused and Unbound, staring, not seeing.

There is a distant space that grabs at my attention, pulling my sight towards it; through my Eyes my Soul flows. Out, flying Out to meet my vision’s gravity, pulled out of Here and Now drawn to invisibility.
My Eyes are magnetisized. Seeing; traveling so far out that I return through the back of my head. Always it is quicker to retrace the light years than pass through my mind. Inside is more distance than all of Outerspace, Innerspace is far more of a vacuum. So much empty area; floating, gently colliding and rebounding.
A dark maze with but one end: down the rabbit hole to the fields by the river Illeism to the mountains against the stars, the land of frost and forest to the tip top where the still lake is a silent mirror. Up here there is no wind, up here the only sound is the sound you bring with you. Shout and the lake shatters the stars and you fall up to meet the broken pieces of the sky to fall back again to a plain surrounded by cliff walls. You awake to where you were all along, the Here and Now, only you have been absent, on a journey light years away to the edge of the universe where it bends back on itself and you ended up lost in your own mind and only just now retraced your steps.

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Another airport bar, just after Christmas. A place of random open conversations; people you will never see again from places you’ve never heard of.
“Yeah? You know what I got for Christmas!? Zanex!”
The holidays always see such a rush of people. People who otherwise would not be flying. People who rarely leave their comfortable suburbanite dream.
Here is the real melting pot of our nation; the myriad of stops between “Here” and “There”, between comfortable home and, to some, a once-a-year destination. Across the bar someone laments a year they weren’t “There”, a year they missed,
“I wasn’t there… I don’t know what happened… They all hate me over there now.”
Still, there is something about these places, these never empty yet shortly lived in bar stools, these polished counter tops and harried bartenders. For as new and spotless as these places look there is a sense of use, of purpose.
“…I’ll have a Tubalow.”
“I guess they don’t want our business…”
“What can I get you?”
Well used and seldom unoccupied these places during the holidays. Everyone has their someplace to go, their someplace their from, their somebody waiting for them, their somebody to see; their something to say.
A faintly alluring feminine voice calls me, “Calling all passengers for Delta flight 95, services to LA and Hawaii, your plane is now boarding.”
I sigh, pay my tab and thank the cute bartender.
“Have a nice flight”, the ubiquitous phrase on everyone’s lips here.
I smile my appreciation, gather my things and head down the causeway. I too have my someplace to go. “Someplace”, no real home, no “from” just a destination; no one waiting for me, just a lot of people to see.
“Have a nice flight” indeed; I hate the hollidays.

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