proser

I make art for blind eyes, and speak to empty chairs and the deaf. I write and paint what I'd like to enjoy, but can't find. For me. This is not pretentiousness, this is apathy to public reception. This is my backscratcher, a place to prattle prose and paint as I find myself uncontrollably compelled to do. Enjoy or don't, I'll not be affected.
~ Saturday, February 16 ~
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from “A Sunday in Hell” 1976


~ Tuesday, November 27 ~
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VELO PATRIA NOSTRA

The bicycle is my home.


~ Thursday, October 11 ~
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Today, I met a lady who carries around a bubble sword. Everyday, she takes it everywhere she goes. It is a huge brightly colored child’s toy that makes giant bubbles, sheathed neatly within the nylon waistband of her fanny pack. I asked her why she always carried it around, and she said it was her therapy. “I’ve had a lot of deaths,” she said. Like a cat? How many? How many did she have left? I began to include the possibility that she was out of her damn mind. Rather, she explained, that after tragically losing her father, then her husband, and then her son, she would find herself anxious and consumed by the past, oftentimes so afraid of the unknown future and it’s potential losses that she wouldn’t do anything, go anywhere; she would just wallow in the pain of her own memories, her own self pity, and suffocate. She makes bubbles, she says, to remind her to be in the present. “They only last a few seconds, or a minute if you’re lucky, but you have to be in the present - y’know, here - to witness how pretty they are.” She didn’t think about the bubbles she made before, or would make, only what she could float across Halsted Street, whatever was happening that moment. She made some really great ones before she left, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had met her before.

It was such a poignant caricature of a stranger, and a penetrating reminder that life is both sad and beautiful. Always give the crazy one with the bubble sword the time of day; there’s a good chance they’ve got an interesting story to tell.


~ Thursday, September 20 ~
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I am always thinking I’m doing it wrong…

but I’ve decided my real career choice is to have a full life. Full of what, however, remains to be seen. Full of my own imposed or thoroughly researched meaning? Full of as much happiness I can personally cultivate for myself? Full of study into who I am and why I am that person? Yes. I’ve decided this is my life’s work. Collecting hobbies and developing talents that refine me and continuously celebrating relationships takes up all my free time these days, with little investment beyond what makes me happy and doesn’t hurt anybody else. I don’t care about having nice things, more about being a proper human, and having good tools, too. I’m fucked if the zombies ever come, I guess.


~ Sunday, September 9 ~
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Cycling is my form of prayer now,

…as a weekly service to myself and others; a ritual function of, by, and for my community, as an exercise that fosters providence, health, strength, and benevolence, and the impetus for temperance and willful restraint of my vices so as to maintain my constant vigilance at that carbon and alloy altar that clears my heart and mind of all but good-will.  The bidon is my challace, the gel my votive feast, my sweat and suffering my sacred duty.  My saints and martyrs line the pages of different books, with foreign names and more foreign homes, all deserving of pilgrimage.  My psalms and hymns are the evidential grunts and wimpers of my toil and exertion, and the completion and subsequent liberation from which is cause for joyous celebration.  Today, however, I skipped church to hang out with Carl Sagan and NWA, whom provided similar purgation.


1 note
~ Wednesday, August 15 ~
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~ Wednesday, April 11 ~
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calloriee:

It’s pretty amazing how diverse the world of cycling is and how little I still know about it. When I came to San Francisco I knew almost nothing - this is a frame, that is a chain, crank…and so on, but there is so much more. I knew some things about the culture surrounding but even that only barely scratched the surface. A year later and…ok, I still feel like I don’t know anything. Here’s what I do know - I love it, some days more than others but I still love it.

It’s nice to come home at the end of a rough week and be able to spend the evening relaxing in the comfort in watching beautiful machines do beautiful things in beautiful places.

My thought for the night is simple: be humble because no matter how much you think you know about anything there is so much more to learn than you could possibly ever imagine.


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reblogged via humaneagenda
~ Wednesday, January 11 ~
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1995(?) ProTi Jackal.  I found the frame on eBay, a small hand-builder from “somewhere else” with a mysterious background.  The only information I could find about the builder, the model, or even this exact bike was that Belgian cyclocross legend Sven Nys “may have raced one” in “some championship” when he was “younger”.  No exact dates, no clues to/of/about the company, no nothing, aside from a few posts on the internet wondering if the eBay auction was a good buy.  It came as a secondhand complete, with an Ultegra 9spd group and Ritchey components, so I raced it the way I got it for a year to cut my teeth in ‘cross in 2010.  After my first season I sought to upgrade the bike, and restore what I imagined to be it’s former glory, but with modern components; a full SRAM Force Group, TRP Euro Mags, carbon tubulars on Zipp hubs, some fancypants cabling, and a clean finish of freshly scrubbed raw Ti.  When I finished building the bike, it was so pretty and new and perfect that I was afraid to get it dirty… like it was art; it was sacred, untarnished, above use, as if it’s true purpose was to look pretty, on the wall, in a glass case.  To “use” it was to appreciate it from afar.  I would take it out for joyrides, shakedowns, and little jaunts to and from the park, and then quickly bring it home, clean it, re-lube everything and put it back on the shelf.  It was somewhat satisfying, in the sense of, “This is my baby.  It is a nice bike.  I have a nice bike.” But it felt all wrong.  That’s when it hit me.  I realized what I had to do, and why I couldn’t.  This wasn’t a baby, this was a bike, and this bike was too sacred, too clean. I had to destroy it.  It was an exercise in willpower and detachment; I had to reduce my most precious possession to a simple tool, to leave it stuck in the mud, ridden hard and put away wet.  I had to shelve all my grievances over time and money spent, and be revisited by the ghost of ‘cross’ past that inspired the rebuild in the first place - the act of restoring glory.  I had been putting off racing to complete the build, but since it was finished I still hadn’t entered a single race.  I registered for the next event that instant, before my brain and wallet had time to protest.  By the time the event got closer, I had finally started riding it.  I had remembered what it really was.  The bike remembered, too, and we made a pact to ride together as hard as we could, especially so if it meant destroying both of us.  The event came, and we did exactly as we promised.  As it turns out, it’s a lot more fun that way. 

Upon reflection, I think that without this revelation, I’d be out of a race bike until I bought something that was less nice.  However, I’d probably have my ProTi forever.  Sitting in a glass case.  Hating itself.   

1995(?) ProTi Jackal.  I found the frame on eBay, a small hand-builder from “somewhere else” with a mysterious background.  The only information I could find about the builder, the model, or even this exact bike was that Belgian cyclocross legend Sven Nys “may have raced one” in “some championship” when he was “younger”.  No exact dates, no clues to/of/about the company, no nothing, aside from a few posts on the internet wondering if the eBay auction was a good buy.  It came as a secondhand complete, with an Ultegra 9spd group and Ritchey components, so I raced it the way I got it for a year to cut my teeth in ‘cross in 2010.  After my first season I sought to upgrade the bike, and restore what I imagined to be it’s former glory, but with modern components; a full SRAM Force Group, TRP Euro Mags, carbon tubulars on Zipp hubs, some fancypants cabling, and a clean finish of freshly scrubbed raw Ti.  When I finished building the bike, it was so pretty and new and perfect that I was afraid to get it dirty… like it was art; it was sacred, untarnished, above use, as if it’s true purpose was to look pretty, on the wall, in a glass case.  To “use” it was to appreciate it from afar.  I would take it out for joyrides, shakedowns, and little jaunts to and from the park, and then quickly bring it home, clean it, re-lube everything and put it back on the shelf.  It was somewhat satisfying, in the sense of, “This is my baby.  It is a nice bike.  I have a nice bike.” But it felt all wrong.  That’s when it hit me.  I realized what I had to do, and why I couldn’t.  This wasn’t a baby, this was a bike, and this bike was too sacred, too clean. I had to destroy it.  It was an exercise in willpower and detachment; I had to reduce my most precious possession to a simple tool, to leave it stuck in the mud, ridden hard and put away wet.  I had to shelve all my grievances over time and money spent, and be revisited by the ghost of ‘cross’ past that inspired the rebuild in the first place - the act of restoring glory.  I had been putting off racing to complete the build, but since it was finished I still hadn’t entered a single race.  I registered for the next event that instant, before my brain and wallet had time to protest.  By the time the event got closer, I had finally started riding it.  I had remembered what it really was.  The bike remembered, too, and we made a pact to ride together as hard as we could, especially so if it meant destroying both of us.  The event came, and we did exactly as we promised.  As it turns out, it’s a lot more fun that way. 

Upon reflection, I think that without this revelation, I’d be out of a race bike until I bought something that was less nice.  However, I’d probably have my ProTi forever.  Sitting in a glass case.  Hating itself.   


~ Wednesday, November 23 ~
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#found

#found


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#found

#found