A multi-faceted, clear-thinking, independent, and earnest child, I loved Mighty Mouse, Peter Pan, Wyatt Earp, Sky King, Annie Oakley, and named my bicycle for a horse who ran like the wind. Wardrobe complemented passions. If I could have found flying green tights, I would have worn them. I did glory in my Daniel Boon rough and ready brown coon-skin cap and the formal white one too. I wore and put to good use leather holsters with silver six guns, my Annie Oakley white-fringed red vest and skirt, and my overalls and cowboy boots, sometimes worn while watching Howdy Doody, perhaps with beer can in-hand. The Pabst probably eased me into evening after dusty days out on the lone prairie.

As well, by age five I started making my own way with God. Kindergarten nun and Church priest were side notes to my precocity wending on Paths of Discovery to destinations of Certain Truth.

First up: Earth is The Garden of Eden. This needed announcing, and I did. Sure of God and my own reasoning, and with desire to keep Those Who Mattered updated, I spoke confident explanations to parents and clergy.

The women in habits were charmed, and the parents smiled, moved their heads side-to-side, tsked a tad, and thus pronounced me incorrect. Undaunted, I persisted. So did they. My confidence submerged a smallish bit.

Then, up a rung to First Grade, individual desks, and catechism classes.

“Who made man?” “God made man”

Whoa! Then, an even bigger Ta-Da!

“We are made in the image and likeness of God.”

I was free! Man, sanctified, and me on solid foundation! I worked the angles, found myself accurate: Eden, that Heaven on Earth, proven. We could all go home decided and happy, sure the rest of the catechism was superfluous

I continued my interior travels. I found clearly, obviously, people are good. Earnest still yet, I explained and proselytized. Parents with smiles and slow chuckles persisted with disproving argument. I lost ground a bit more, and soldiered on

By second grade, more discernment, and thus I could firmly champion a pro-human, democratic God. ‘Mystery of The Trinity’? Humph! Echoing Einstein, who I did not know at the time, I told Sister Mary-Something God wouldn’t fool with us like that. I explained The Trinity. I wondered how so many before me missed the obvious.

I could have been the First Woman Pope, I was so clear on all this. Unfortunately neither my precocious pronouncement nor potential as pope remain. And back then, my passion slowly drooped and finally died as Church and Parents boggled me with confounding inconsistencies. God was more lightening bolt than love, and Sin got more press than Redemption. Fifth grade bored me and my imagination moved on.

I did not bother to stop believing in God, but institutions had challenged me on so many fronts by age nineteen my interior life and inclination to independence were hunkered down to subterranean levels. I secured some measure of secret high ground, tramped onward, achieved graduation from college and family, left the nests, and let life carry me to the Midwest where I lost several identities and tossed the admissions to law schools.

Fourteen years, four jobs, two careers, shiatsu school and a move to California later, God was re-introduced on a Friday afternoon by my brilliant acupuncturist and teacher, who folded his arms and said oh-so-calmly, “You really ought to re-consider God.”




“Well, if you want. I have always liked Jesus.”

I stared. I blinked several blinks. I would have known he was nuts but for having already figured out he was brilliant and, as a mystic Jungian Doctor of Oriental Medicine with Mormon upbringing and long out-of-the-closet gay fellow, not ~to my way of perceiving~ the average guy to suggest God. There was more blinking, and we spent four years shifting life with weekly exchanges of acupuncture and shiatsu, opinions and investigations. For me, Chinese medicine, homeopathy, meditation, Science of Mind and my own inner knowing became basic reality, and my shiatsu more eclectic, more accomplished.

Molecules of reality spread apart, came back together in changed configurations. I both lived life and practiced shiatsu multi-dimensionally. God was fine, Jesus was too, and I had no recollection of my grammar school fascinations with deity and reality. Cowboys and flying heroes had long given way to detectives. My penchant for bicycles, somewhat dashing hats, clothes, and good beer, evolved.

Experience, and intellectual independence came to include my working with the innate intelligence of the human body-mind-spirit. Within that, I found God as a fluid, beautiful dance of reality and invitation.

Then, tectonic crashing ruptured the bedrock of relationship and all the furniture upended. I plunged, traveled in, raveled out, rode deranging fractals of excruciating unfoldment. Like the shamans buried alive to pass tests of the underworld, I slowly resurrected to new light, new world, and a reality challengingly malleable. With metaphysics, spirituality, and bicycling, still and more my cornerstones, it would take another fifteen years for me to recollect convictions about Eden, human possibility, and my passion for God as democratic, accessible, and personal, even as all that formed a foundation of my stance and practice in medicine.


I am house sitting, lying out on the back deck, passively stretching. The sun is all glare behind the clouds. I will be in the company of two cats and myself for four whole days.

I have a Project, so currently I am passively stretching with focus.

Being with complete Emptiness, being empty.

A moment presents. Vast as Openness. I find myself here. I hang out. I go more slack. My back has less arch. My hips fall. The roses look more red.

My internal whomever offers words that create substance. I like this. With those words I hold a space, have something impossible to hold and something completely possible to be. I breathe, rest, and be.

Sudden, startling, there is nothing pouring forth blinding white yellow, terrifying.

Empty has taken me here.

This is Love. I can barely stand it.

I feel my own feint, my own cheat, my own backing off.

Then a wave of invitation; my porcupine tension dissolves. I can welcome, see myself vast. Waiting disappears. I rest.

In this being present, I am real. So is Who I am, What I want, What I experience.

I do not find this easy. Monkey mind is all around, pushing. Still, these moments I visit me, and I relax.

The gift of knowing I am, as It is, Real.

‘Understanding Reality’ is often said to be impossible. Though I suspect “We cannot know” is just another story.

There is Unity. There is Playing In The Fields of Presence.

We can because we do.

I was going to research ‘Does lead in the soil translate to lead in your food?’ but I decided, what-the-heck? Why stop there?

Why not go all the way?

(You see my achilles heel. I do not say bones. I do not mention blood.)

I am living next to a landscape of lead.

You see my prejudice. I do not mention…


I cannot easily think what else to mention besides the lead.


In this landscape, the same as ‘lead’?

I have assumptions, not knowledge.

Onto the web, to “who is telling the truth?” to “Who Do I Believe?”

Onto the phone, to the Feds, to the County. I get a bemused scientist, and an ever-so reassuring educator.

Very calm, reasonable people. I get dosed with tranquility and education. Now I too can competently and calmly deal with the issue.

Two sets of shoes, and a damp mop will make everything okay.

That and Keep my Hands Out of my Mouth.

As to the yard? Dig it up. Throw it away.

Or. Cover it completely with a new yard. There are experts for this sort of thing.

My conversation cooperates with their lilting tones, but I get off the phone and translate: “We are screwed.”

I hear a subtext singing: “Mitigate where you can and Wait out the rest. Don’t breathe too deeply. Or whatever. Keep your children from rolling around in the dirt. Good luck with crawling babies.”

I think, “Yeah, what’s the government supposed to do? Be real? Thorough? Then what?” I get it. I shrug.

You can see my prejudice.

Still, I am curious. How do we best live in this world? Is owning more than one pair of shoes really a good strategy?

I am going to hunt up the answers, do my best to weed out Doomsayers and SoothingSayers, let you know what I find out.

I’m also keeping my hands out of my mouth.

I rode 5000 miles on The Bike last week. In my room. On my laptop.

All very demanding. Landscape shifting.

My bicycle, propped against the wall, witnessed my hunt through France, the USA, Switzerland, England, a tiny corner of New Zealand. Watched me investigate food, lead, horticulture, and where I might want to go to school; overheard a conversation where I startled to hear mention of draft horses. Along with me, she struggled with enervating milk-white grey, life sucking, morning into afternoon, maybe all day, skies.

The road kept on and on and on, day-in-day-out.

Then, I decided: Enough. I parked. Stopped looking. Resolutely.

That next day, the sun shone through by 10 a.m.

Coincidence, you say.

Fine. As you like. I offer no interpretation.

On Friday afternoon, when sun finally broke through the day, Bicycle and I pedaled to the library to get the book waiting for me, and then to the cafe. There, she usually gets admired, and I sip and read outdoors. Very satisfying.

On that day, she was glimmering, and I was slowly making my way through pages of plants, patterns and explanations of Goethean ‘exact sensorial imagination’ when friend Alla and her sweet fellow James strolled up, bustled about, decided to stay.

If ever in need of proof of life’s sense of humor and perfect timing, I will refer to this tale: After choosing to settle in together, the next choice was tea all around, and I declared “I’m buying; what will you have?”

Alla brightened: “Ding Dong.” I blinked.

Their favorite green tea at this cafe, I surrendered to silly, finding it sublime. It took me only four times of asking to make sure I got the name right. Oh me of so little faith, less trust, and so much judgment!

We chatted. I left my copy of Mr. Suchantke’s Eco-Geography to emanate on the table. By that night I had finished the introductory chapter, Ecology of the Imagination. (Norman Skillen) I fell asleep happy and woke up that way too.

Today, I will take time to find if the thrilling Chapter One title, Primeval Past as Living Present is fulfilled by thrilling content. It is about Ngorongoro, of which I really know nothing. Lots of ignorance, and a sunny day to boot! Even better, another bike ride somewhere to read this out-of-doors.

The Bicycle Ride unwinds through my life. Not knowing is an evolving presence. Before I left, I called the ride to LA a Victory Ride. I also commented over yet another tea with Alla and James that I really had no idea what I would do after riding to LA. The conversation rolled around to Alla saying, “Well, there’s the book to write: I Really Don’t Know.”

As is known, the ride daily was a ride of not knowing.

As to being a Victory Ride, it was. Sure. Of course. I ought to hold a contest:

Write In! Tell Christine What The Victory Was, Really!

A trip to empty out the last two years of ‘being injured’? Very funny, as only god, the universe, the whatever it is That Is, can be. “The last two years….”?? Oh please. Emptying out a lifetime, more like it.

It is feels good to feel emptied out, especially when combined with not knowing. Helps identify where I am not emptied at all. Oh my, laughin’ at myself. Softly chuckling, actually.

I wake most mornings in pain that could be identified as a result of the accident. I know better, though. I know if I be with it, do not interpret it, I change it. Just as in being with the ride. Just as being with life.

Having chosen to stop all looking, I did net realizing something I had not before.

I sleep at ‘alert’. I am not at rest. “Alert” does not make for a comfortable leg and pelvis. Legitimately, I could attribute this tension to the plain where neurological~brain aspects of the physicality and psychology of my life landscape, fashioned by soul and events, meet. Moments, particling, waving, patterning.


Like Pee-Wee Herman, one of my daily practices is The Word for The Day. I get mine from breathing rather than a robot. Though, maybe if I did not sleep stiff as a robot, I would not find pain every morning. Hmmmm.

Whatever the Word, it evolves out of my meditation, and presents, instructs, unfolds exponentially through a day in the life. It tours me along, points out This, aligns That; sparks translate into vision, sensation, feeling, comprehension….maybe.

Last Friday something was shifted. Rather then a word, I received more of a hint, an experience: flow and relationship. Might call it angle, position or stance. My experiencing in relation to experience.

Not knowing as a place. No category of Not or Knowing. No categories. Pure. Freedom.

What to do with this? Not to do anything feels like the only thing to be done. Well, where is the new career in that?

Not doing such a good job of surrendering, I manufacture mental fol-de-rol. More ridiculous than silly, and not sublime at all.

Today I read something my friend James gave me. An interview with a woman, Neelam. Perhaps he is the interviewer. I do not know.

“The tremendous power…of being here. The moment you are willing to be here, something stops. You are actually resting here as you are.”

“Everything is attracted to that freedom, that space, because now there is some place to rest.”

Ah, I have a choice about sleeping at alert!

She says “you can be honest about what arises in consciousness and take absolute total responsibility for what is, no matter how much or little you know of it.”

Brain and life have, for two years, conspired so I had to find every difficulty was an offering to recover from the illusion of powerlessness. A choice of new position: the victory of being present. I equate this with taking responsibility. Eventually, I did come to hear it as a loving call to myself.

I just have to be willing to do it. Which requires that I remember to do it. Which requires a willingness to believe I can. From that moment of presence, the moment of breathing and being, veils fall away. Rich, fecund, deep unfoldings evolve.

Now, I just have to get the trick of being present in the midst of not knowing. What was it I said about faith, trust, and judgment?

I had said leaving LA was moving on, to see what I see.

The IS that IS is enjoying my plans, no doubt. Chuckling, really. I am a funny grrl, no doubt about that.

The Bicycle Rides On.


I have decided to go to France to study French for a year. Whimsy with practical application!


Except no such program exists for the likes of me. I am without appropriate association, matriculation, or category. I do have the money, but not The Money that affords buying my way into living in France as I choose.

Yet, the more I hunt, the more it appears the most practical strategy is to buy my way into the country. So exciting! To be placed firmly in situ vis a vis the spiritu of the milieu of global capitalism!

Being industrious, fundamentally well-behaved and willing to cooperate with contemporary mores, I have now recommitted to a personal goal: That of winning all for myself the entire California (Please Play Responsibly) Super Lotto Jackpot. Buying my way into France has rakish appeal and is legal.


Were I a genius of great renown, there is also some strategy for a year’s stay. Fresh out of renown, I am at Square One. Sans Lotto Winnings.

But I am renewed. I have bicycled the CA coast on a wobbly bicycle. French bureaucracy is nothing but opportunity.

Being renewed, my creativity is hungry for action. I eat barriers for lunch.

I shall convince France herself to support my learning in France! Who needs to court a single woman, when one could court an entire courtesan? I do not lack ambition.

So much in my favor: I promise to eat well, bike everywhere, and study hard. The French economy will benefit: I will be paying rent, buying food, paying outrageous prices. The Euro is a sinking. Get smart, dear France. I am a savior.

Plus, I have a brain injury. I make Slow Food look a tad rushed. France should leap to bare the barbaric American health care system for what it is. Christine, perfect poster babe for exposing ‘health’ and ‘care’ as defined by our InsuranceMedicalGovernment Complex.

Can you hear it? Mon Dieu! Provide the woman the opportunities she seeks! Take That M. O’ba~Ma, snub-maitre extraordinaire. Again, we are Lafayette!

And Just Think: I am not tired, nor poor, nor hungry. How convenient! Yearning to breathe free, definitely not huddled!

Very headline worthy. Good publicity. Mervellieuse.

So: a Consular visit to present my cogent case with poetic panache? Desire and sincerity are real; so is my brain. I am Summa Cum Laude, even if a tad impaired. Friends can testify I have long wanted to be inundated, indeed, overwhelmed, by 100 French women attending my every need. Surely the Consulate will be swayed by that detail.

In this day of globalization, I have a right to self-improvement and French dairy products. In this day of G8 cooperation, surely I am due an extended stay visa.

And! I am a candidate for asylum; tortured by provincial attitudes about raw milk, I suffer the dearth of good French raw cheese even in California.

I call upon France to strike a blow for la culture et la liberte de la nourriture.

Further, consider the bicycle! Honored travel that keeps me sightly and sprightly. No pollution of any variety. A boon for countryside and city alike.

Finally, I am an adult of good cheer. Even in the face of the current state of the world, and France’s inhospitality, I have no taste for bombs.

See? I am amazing.


and… to be continued

… we have to deal with reality.” Nong, enterprising business woman in Bangkok 8 by John Burdett.

So, the fever revving questions about imagination, creativity, reality, and what … really … does one do about despoiling Traffic?

The noises of millions, honking horns, blaring sirens, whirring helicopter rotors, gunning motors, tromping through nervous systems.

The big picture, just beyond the front door; the even larger one down the block. The more pleasant one- or not- two miles beyond.

I am living in a foreign city; it is given that I have to work to be accustomed. Still, L.A.~SoCal assaults my Oakland-San Francisco-NoCal configuration, more than Madrid ever did. City lay-out and 600,000 fewer inhabitants probably account for part of that. My own changes in the twenty years since I resided here may account for the rest.

I had been grieving those L.A. changes, overwhelmed by them. Then I started reading Bangkok 8, a tale of individuals and a city, as is my other read: L.A. Noir: The Struggle for the Soul of America’s Most Seductive City. One, fiction; the other, not. Both are history, urban commentary, and explorations of faith. Deft, dramatic explorations of psyche, police, crime, opportunity, and AMERICA.

Bangkok 8 bowled me over. L.A. Noir re-reminds me of all the ways I- we all?- look elsewhere, forget and never knew what has gone before. Both refresh the lens, shift the mirror, kick the butt. Each makes me step back to wonder, one more time: Road? Life? Humanity? Adulthood?

I hear whistling wake up calls not to take it all so seriously.

And to know that something is very serious, indeed.

The Buddha is in the paradox, eh?

Tomorrow, to change landscapes, I will transport by airplane. There will be a new view; I will see what I will see. I am ready to live anew, ride from a different perspective, with a different call to life.

The Bicycle is doing its job well. The invitation to reality unfolds.

First: It is summer. So, to drink rose is de rigeur.
Further, “The 2009 Muga Rose is a mix of red and white grapes, 60% Garnacha, 30% Viura, and 10% Tempranillo which spends 2 months in American oak vats. Medium pink-colored with a pretty nose of strawberry and rhubarb, on the palate it is dry, crisp, and tasty in a slightly austere style which more sophisticated imbibers may find appealing.”

As to that last comment, I don’t know that it takes sophistication to drink something that does not taste of soda pop. Buy this wine. Drink it chilled, in a fuller, rounder glass, and with pork, chicken, seafood or on its own for the sheer love of anything you want to celebrate. In my case, that would not include breakfast because I get tipsy if I imbibe anything but Bloody Marys before 5 or 6 p.m. I have flaws; weaknesses even.

Second: I LOVE LA!!! As of yesterday. Apparently 90% of all cars left town to honor Independence elsewhere. I am telling you true! Even the sun celebrated. No morning coastal fog challenging moods till noon. Cool breezes, lush vegetation, clear sunny blue skies, empty streets…. AND I found (drrrumrrroll) a bookstore….a really Good Bookstore! I was so happy, bought two books! Then, right next store, a restaurant of French styling, and charming wait staff. The bar: imported from France with heavy dark wood to lean upon, backed by shinning brass, glass and mirrors to set off all those lovely bottles with French labels. The flooring: those oh-so typical tiny white and black tiles. The barman: handsome and French with a smile that would make anyone want him for their very own. The dining rooms: dreamscapes with slowly wafting ceiling fans, soft afternoon light, subdued, alluring golden yellow washed walls and dark wooden chairs with their white cotton tablecloth covered tables. It was the sidewalk tables everyone chose yesterday. Smog-free al fresco! Ooo! LaLa.

Then: Two cheerfully helpful waitresses who, when asked by me mesmerized by the treats in the glass pastry case, which tart, the Goat Cheese with Fresh Pear, or the Lemon Citron, each declared her love, leaving me with an equal vote for both. Whereupon the raven-haired fair skinned dark eyed red lipsticked beauty brightened perkishly to state with a touch of an accent, “Whichever one you pick, you will be choosing one of us!”

Oh my.

I stared at the tarts. I am pretty sure I blinked. I looked at her. I breathed in and out calmly. I deliberately blinked again. She was there even then. I proved my mettle. I did not swoon. I did not ask her what time she got off work. I did not buy the tart she preferred.

I grinned all the way home, drank the rose, had the wonderful dinner I made, and much later, a really nice dessert. (The Goat Cheese with Fresh Pair Tart.)

Turns out that civilized block is part of what might well be a civilized neighborhood. I feel heartened, but am quite aware I may have been seduced by the dearth of cars, which very quickly presents one with air one does not see. Soon, I head out to look further. More Los Felz and more Silverlake, and my new non-fiction LA Noir by John Buntin. A perfect book for these streets of long glamorous, but never shiny, LA.

I had hours to wait for the nice UPS man to deliver my bike case today, so I began The Next Phase. If I want a new paradigm, I have to describe it. I went in search of community and inspiration, googling several paths of inquiry. Results were not only not relevant, they were Zip, Nada, and Zilch until with “How does Language change Imagination” I found:

Appreciative Inquiry, Change at the Speed of Imagination
“Appreciative Inquiry frees organizations from the restrictive orthodoxy of “deficit based change” and allows them the freedom to mobilize strategic change and focus on the visible and tacit strengths of an organization.”

I also found a chart that wordpress mangles into a list even though I put it in chart form. It describes three kinds of imagination and associated descriptive keywords:

Problem Focus: Past// What’s Wrong// Control// Outside Experts//What’s Missing// Determine// Analysis// Isolate// Problems// Solve// Unknown is Dangerous// Thinking

Outcome Focus: Future// What’s Desired// Influence// Collaboration//Known Resources// Answer// Goals with Action// Combine// Results// Develop// Unknown is Controllable// Acting

Emergence Focus: Now and Future// What’s Emerging// Explore and Engage// Co-creation//Unseen Resources// Discover// Unfolding// Integrate “Yes, And…”// Opportunities and Invitations// Transform// Unknown is Creative// New Way of Being

I like this list and that it is from a woman owned business, The Center for Creative Emergence in D.C. which is connected with her Capitol Creativity Network that lists a number of books, including ** TA-DA! ** Action Based Communication: Changing Experience Through Language by Renée Barnow.

All this sounded pretty cool to me. Even though the book turned out not to be really what I hoped, and the site Think for Change LLC was not really ‘it’ what with those pictures of white people in business suits, I was in the unfolding Internet hunt, which meant I was engaging purpose and pursuit.

Then, (ominous import)

I found Case Western University has a whole program about ‘AI.’ A website called Appreciative Inquiry Commons, too. So, first, idea, then movement, then a business, and then many businesses, onto a whole industry, so cool it has its own abbreviation and coaches and networks and books with almost all the same titles. Like Deepak Chopra. Expanding Cottage Industry 101 Becomes The Solution That Will Cure Everything Especially with Yet One More Book, Yet One More Workshop Leading to World Domination.

Systems people creating more systems to help industry and individuals innovate. Creativity Gone Worldwide!!!

“Ooooo!” moved into “hmmmmmm” and “uhhhhhhhhh” which became “tch” and “pffffffff” sometimes translated as “Pfui.”

I hate this kind of thing. I started squinting. Never a good sign. Then a feeling of encroaching Whiteness. A distinctly bad feeling. Kind of like business suits in disguise as they reach forward to shake your hand. I snarked: I just really do not think these people want to bicycle to work everyday. Then, Oh No! I was c-r-a-n-k-y, even f-r-u-s-t-r-a-t-e-d, and (gasp!) Worse!!!

Thinking in STEROTYPES. (“Maybe I ought to try getting over my assumptions? I am sure these…ahhhhh!!!! The website has lists of AI practitioners, and AI speakers! Oh by golly, Outside Experts!!! … See above list. Note where “Outside Experts” falls!)


So, here are my questions: where to learn, to cultivate clearly different imagination? What keywords lead to the people and positions that toss the boxes in compost bins? Complaining boxes, angry boxes, boxes of resistance, limitation, negativity in any disguise. Out with sober and sobering boxes. Boxes of enlightenment. Grubby boxes. Walls.

Perhaps I should inquire more appreciatively? Please, do opine freely.

A friend and I once argued as he presented the notion all libraries should be closed. We came to a sort of peace when he decided they could stay open if they served beer. Really good beer. I do confess to enjoying a quiet library. But maybe the beer thing is an idea whose time has come.

Social action, intellectual inquiry, neighborhood meetings liberated, loosed, grinning. He thinks I keep it all complicated because even though I bicycle, I want to eat organic food. We haven’t tackled my preference for European wines yet. I feel safe, though. He doesn’t like crappy beer.

This is all rather open-ended, I realize.

Write back.

And check out the very cool http://ciclavia.wordpress.com/

I am taking care of CicLAvia’s community and bicycle activist Adonia Lugo’s cats as she visits Car-Free Sundays on the West Coast. Yup, she is strolling Car-Free Sunday Streets in my old San Francisco neighborhood (“The Mission”) as well as another such happening in Portland while I am feeling the effects of car inundant in Los Angeles, and dodging prodigious amounts of her cats’ hair.

My sense of humor is creeping back up on me.

117 Bimini Place, Los Angeles, Ca.

Ghosts past and present hover. History and stories LA does not support, does not revere.

Beautiful architecture, jazzing history, people who were never white, or white enough. Sloughs, schools, longtime industries.

Waste, old and long. Stories stumble past, so little present is offered.

For me: wonder, again and wondering, more. Here I am, at this address, in this 1922 building, surrounded by glory, and history, and argument, and nothing is truly clean. I do not enjoy that. This is a non-profit dedicated to itself as Eco-Village; I wonder if everyone joined to clean and shine it what would happen.

I wonder what debris falls away if we each say hello and good-bye to yesterday, and demand that too. Forget forgetting; choose fully present present.

Here in this building, posters of positive thought, printed signs of struggle. I want new paint, new colors, new paradigm.

The bicycle pushes me: accept, address, trust, choose, move on. In ten days I fly to Oakland. I feel fresh. New. Challenge and gift.

LA current, too too much.

I have little with which to feel or find here beyond Behemoth Lumbering Monolith.

The bicycle has helped me. In this land of motors, fumes and haze, I feel even more divorced from cars, more divorced from opportunity. I am going to Oakland, not back, to see what I see.

I look forward to walking a bit. I look forward to finding what more I can scrub.

I look forward to the Open Road, and my own revolution.

Car sounds all around.
RumbaRumbling Poundpounding bodyshaking PASSING trailer trucks.

What a world it would be without their sounds for 24 hours. In a city, on a highway, in my ears, next to my head.

Car-centric motor-centric speed-centric practical popularity no time not enough space time is money nice you find time not practical for me Wait how do why do Noise barrage.

Noise and no room on the side of the road. Whether here in The Big City, or traveling much of the coastal highway.

LA! Oh, LA! How, really, HOW did all of this get to be like this? LA beauty is Diamond light as beautiful as any Dali celebrated in coastal Spain. With rugged green and california scrub brown vaulted hillsides carved with canyons. Climate and soil make possible cooling breezes, shimmering bougainvillea, flowering purple lace jacaranda. And all those famous Pasadena roses!

People here have made clear choices for constructed beauty, and muddled air.

Today I rode 20 miles to go to the doctor, get a haircut, and buy a bottle of wine. A ride ridiculous with time, exhaust, and loveliness.

Major arterials of speed, and choking traffic. Olympic! A Boulevard of four lanes in each direction! Beverly, a clog. And most often, no room for me and bicycle on major roads, even though drivers were careful, often courteous.

One mission: Eschew All Criticism. It does not a whit of good. Choice, yes, criticism, nah. Forget complaint, choose curiosity.

What lead us to forget legs for perambulation, for transport?
What road leads us to forget, to forego?

Empire building? Conquering heroes. Consequencing heroes.

I used to live here, loving here.

Today I found street after street seductive dreamscape pleasure,
and main drag traffic squeezing my lungs. So little oxygen among
the particulate.

Ye Gads, how do these people breathe?

How do these people? I cannot find my place in this, perhaps because I cannot find this place. Scale so large noise so great, I am still orienting for perspective.

A home entertainment center would help. A castle. A command post. An encasing car.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 20 other followers