Thursday, April 2, 2009

Wasted On The Way

Rain and melancholy live in the same building I recon. I have not turned a pedal since my epic trip to the land of my cousins. The rain here at home has been relentless and sporadic. I have been swimming in images, without the beloved ride to tame the manic fiend that lives in the dark reaches of my melon. I haven't been able to tap into the better parts of my sunny side to do the trip or this blog justice.

Still, the water flows, in volumes too large for my for my culvert to handle. So too do the memories, feelings, and seconds, woven together like a tapestry. I am happy to be on a few new quests and to have a handle on my rudder, but I have also drifted away from the comfort of my riding friends. I hope they know I want to be back in the fold, and that it's not easy to be out in the cold.

The data will not stop for anything, and comes like rapids, from every angle. The trip, the riding, being at ease among family. This blog window is infinite, but there is not enough room and I don't have the nomenclature. Like most big tasks, they will have to be broken down into smaller, more manageable stacks. Hopefully, I will be able to convey something that will relay my gratitude to the people that open their homes, schedules, and arms to accommodate the psychos from the south. I finally got to see my brother in a place he could be himself. Recharged for life by the relatives he hasn't seen since 1978. It's too much, I am only able to shake my head, nothing more.

A new wave of water is flowing as I write this. For now I will have to watch it all float by and hope I have the telemetry to find my way back to the magic moments. Pictures are being sorted and hopefully the words will come. I am a prisoner of the deluge and only when the rain stops will I be able to grasp the meaning of the spectacle.

What else is scrambling my eggs? I fell into a rabbit hole called Facebook last week and my past poured out of the sky into my laptop. I fled my hometown on a summer night in 1987, thinking all my problems were geographical. I ran from my comfort zone in the hopes of becoming something other than a local skater, surfer and drummer in the band that didn't make it. I carved out a life for myself in this great southern town, but I never made amends with my history. Now like a strange dream all those faces, feelings, and sins are in my friends file. I am trying to balance the books, forgive those who trespassed against me, and be forgiven my trespasses. It's a big stack and as always it's more in my mind than anyone else's.

Please bear with me, while I try to find a radio station in the wilderness. For now its static, mariachi's and "The Ole Gospel Hour" playing all at once.

Let the water come and carry us away.