power relations,histories,peoples,diasporas,patriarchies,revolution,hybridity,'post'-everything.STOP
I actually remember it well, which is somewhat of an oddity for me. Mike and I had just skated through the turn-around that goes underground, or better yet, sweeps under PCH. We're such morons. Skating down to the river, smelling the stink and watching the birds. We'd always hold on tight and ride across and under the bridge, usually with knees bent in a fearful gonna-jump-if-I-have-to stance. We'd ride the slide until we hit the up-take and we hopped off the board to gaze at the river from the other side of the bridge, laughing. We always took that side path to practice our olleys to avoid being seen. Always afraid of people thinking we're uncoordinated, or untalented, or any other un-'s. We sucked. We still suck, even though Mike did get bragging rights when he broke his collar-bone. I think to this day we couldn't olley over a large rock, much less a curb. Anyway, we'd been cruisin' and falling and trying to land an olley always fearful of the right-hand side where the slope took the form of sharp rocks that led down to the river. (Reminding me off-hand of the 'pier' down by Lake Perris where my Dad and I and Jared used to go and fish for bluegill). I remember looking down and seeing a bike sticking out of the water in the early descent shallows. I probably said something like, "Hey Mike, dude, look at that bike". In any case we ended up climbing down to investigate, somewhat like curious children, already assembling some murder mystery in our minds, feeling young and adventurous. We plucked it out, I mean who fucking cares right? and it looked alright. All we noticed were some missing spokes, an off-set chain and a general rustiness that comes with age. That is to say, we hauled it back up the rocks and kick-standed it while we looked it over. I think there is something in these moments. Some sort of foretelling that we might even notice, but which we dismiss as pure idosyncracy. Whatever, we walked it home. Laughing and thinking about our fortune, like some booty we stumbled upon, content, sometime around dusk, something like wholesome. Mike helped me put the chain back on and for the rest of the year, I think there wasn't but a week or so left anyway, it resided in our living room. I think I took it out once, but only went around the block, and felt nervous on it and never rode it again. The story ends there, but nonetheless continues personless through two winters spent in Riverside, shuffled about the backyard, the cats may have even pissed on it a few times. Whatever it's story, mine began yesterday. Jessica (IPA Jessica) and I met up at 35th St., and after some minor chain malfunctions, we glided down to the end of the boardwalk, stopping only once to watch the bonfires burn. We talked about France, French people and how amazing it is to live down by the beach. We glided, or glid, or something that involves sweet movement. I loved it. I can't believe I never rode bikes more often! (Kisch will kill me for saying that). And so today, after work and class, and all the gaps in between, my Monday 8-5 passed and shot me down the 55 in the after-work sun-drop. I stopped at Growers Direct, picked up some fresh Avocados, Tomatoes, Tangerines, Peaches and one baguette. Listening to the National, I was screaming something about motorcades and birthday cakes, feeling untouchable. I put my shit in the kitched and quickly took the bike downstairs and hit the dusk with my wonderful, wonderful bike. I put on the new Broken Social Scene cd and couldn't even control myself as I felt breathless with all the movement and music, stopping every now and then to see the sunset progressing, seeing the sky being filled by the music. Something wholesome, I felt, thought about good things, things I can understand as operating on such a perfect level. I thought of being young, seeing the sky, the clouds, and hearing music; gliding. I flew down to the river and saw the post-sunset hue behind the last lifeguard tower down by the river. I thought about riding over the bridge but decided to save it for another day and headed home, listening to 'We Should Have Never Lived Like We Were Skyscrapers', and as happy as I was, couldn't help think that the worst is on it's way. Some thoughts you just can't shake, but I rode on anway. Carried the bike upstairs, felt no worse for the wear and thought that things like this should be pocketed, kept, or, at the very least remembered, transcribed. Something about some day that I felt pretty good. Like today. Like I should drink pink lemonade and not feel guilty. Sprinklers, sparklers, undisturbed sleep, when we were all old enough to walk, but our parents carried us in anyway, left the light off and laid us down. The sky today, the music filling the sky today. That's it really. Thank you for reading.
[Oh, and I almost forgot. Party at our place, Saturday.]