The Poetry In It

This morning, I was awake until almost 2 AM working on my mag trainer routines. A bit odd, I suppose, and certainly unwise.

But besides wanting to be ready, for the inevitable falling leaves and fading of light of the changing seasons, the loom-ing inaccessibility of the paved streets and roadways that have helped me skirt the utter insanity of these times, I love crafting this interplay of minutes and seconds with ratios of gears, the turning and meshing of physical things in the framework of time.

The truly odd thing about this is that this is not something that I'm good at, cannot conceptualize beyond the next mechanical step, the next backspace and insertion, the next mark on the page.

Yet I find such poetry in it--on the printed page and in the sense that my heart and lungs and legs will make of it as they bring to life what is on that page.

On the other hand, I seem to have picked up another dry cough--somewhere out on that highway that I so much want to keep riding on--and probably should have gone to bed at an earlier time...

LPK
Dreamwidth
8.30.2020 

When I Ride

It's been raining, off and on, for nearly a week.

For the most part, the pavement has dried between intermittent showers and so I've been able to ride. Which is something I need to be able to do--to escape these four walls, and the narrow confines of my faltering mind, and just ride.

This morning, it was cooler with a persistent wind. Sometimes gusting, sometimes steady, but out there for me to ride into, with, against. And so I wore a jacket, as worn and blue as its owner is--and missing the zipper pull besides.

Which meant that, although certainly warmer, I couldn't feel the wind. Not the way I can across bare skin.

The way I'd gotten used to, before these fading summer days.

The way I need to, when I ride...

LPK
Dreamwidth
8.30.2020