Content is content.

8.6.14
Been reading through my travel journal lately, seeking inspiration, and I hadn't read much of it since I first wrote it. This is a bit I never posted from April 2012, just getting back to Los Angeles from Spain after three months out: 

I arrive in LA and pick up my baggage, and I get a cab to the hotel. The hotel is very beautiful and very convenient but the room is small and definitely not worth the $400 a night or whatever it is.

I can't smoke anywhere, and there is lots of noise and lots of rudeness and tons of skin. I failed to notice, although this is one thing I always forget and then am reminded of when I get back here, that shorts are not common in Europe. In Europe, they have these things called skirts, which apparently are only useful anymore in the States when at work or on a first date. 

So all the tits, short-shorts, and yoga pant crack-ass is a shocking welcome home. 

Annie, Are You OK?


I’m feeling very angsty. There is a cloud over me and I can’t outsmart it. I know the cloud is dumb and incapable of strategy but it keeps finding me, no matter how many hours I spend on my bike. It finds me even in my dreams.

Sometimes I give up the care that it is there, because I know that clouds will sometimes form, despite my protests, and that they will travel with the wind, and that the wind is always consistent in its pressing, pushing the cloud as it pushes me, but this wind is in my face, not so hard that I can’t breath, but enough to be annoying. I wish it would go away. But this wind is committed to something, and I can’t make sense of its persistence. I tell it that it is just a cloud, that no one cares about it, that no one likes it, that all of us would prefer that it not block out the sun, but it just dangles there and makes no offer to its intention.

The Slow Leak


Well, that girlfriend thing is over. Deep down, there was something fundamentally incompatible about us, to paraphrase someone else who worded it better than I could have. I was accused of walking away too easily, but I'm pretty certain that when a book ends, there aren't extra chapters lying around for me to find. And sequels almost never deliver.

There was a slow drip from the roof that I ignored but knew would bring the whole house crashing down someday. Afterwards, I looked at the carnage and didn't wonder "What the fuck?" I looked at it and I thought "Oh, so that was what that drip was all about."

Little trip up North


I started a wee little trip a couple of weeks ago. On a whim again, and not much planned. I figured to start in Lake Placid and climb Whiteface, which a friend told me I should climb, so I did. From there, I went east to Middlebury (VT) for no particular reason, then North Conway (NH) to ride the Kancamagus Highway, then to Portland (ME) and then Portsmouth (NH) and now I’m in Gloucester (MA). And I’m sick. For the first time in about three years I am sick and it’s fucking horrible. I think I overdid it.

Wait, why such a short trip? You usually go longer and the locales are…uh, cooler.

I know, it’s because I have a girlfriend now. She is very real and I like this girl very much and she makes me not want to be away from her for very long. I’ve always said that traveling for me was only going to be satisfying unless it wasn’t. And I’ll tell you that this trip has been kind of flavorless outside of the biking bits.  Now I would love for her to travel with me, but she’s not been on a bike (although she is a voracious runner and yoga-er) so good seeds there and we will see. If she picks it up, great, if not, great.

Make your rights more right.


What a glorious day; maybe the finest of this summer.  I had hoped only to comment on how glorious it was, and that's still the plan, but with one caveat; I learned immediately after dismounting my bike this evening that my college housemate had passed away in his sleep. That's all the details I could glean from my friends. Yesterday he was picking blueberries with his family and then he just went to sleep and did not see the morning. 

Can't be. Crazy. Unfair. Too soon. Not him. I don't understand. Once past those thoughts, my own sense of vulnerability backhands me hard, and I take good account of how it makes me feel, because I want to remember it. Because I know that this feeling passes with time, and I want to remind myself, over and over again, of the certain emotions it puts onto the field.

Shut Up Brain

Location: West Chester, PA (Home)
I know that you know that cycling is therapy. I somehow slipped into a bit of a coma the last couple of days, maybe it's just re-adjustment and maybe I'm tired or maybe I just have to realize that every once in a while my testosterone levels slip and I have my man-flow. For whatever reason, I did not feel like waking up the last few days. The therapy is failing me.

I dip into many wells of inspiration when I feel like this. I start a couple of books, see how far they get me. I throw some useless shit in the garbage. I go to bed early or I stay up late scouting a possible long term stay in Italy for the next trip. I watch movies, but they disappoint, in general. I don't read movie reviews because I find most people who write reviews to be pretty specifically pissed off about something other than the movie, and I don't like being guided by stupid, angry people. So picking a movie is lottery fare.

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