Tuesday, December 1, 2009

fighting proper

when i was seven years old, i had an unfortunate accident which involved a hill, a scooter, and a large brick mailbox. this is probably the first good sign (a red flag, if i may) for me not to want to ever buy a motorcycle, but there is this beautiful vintage yamaha with red and black detail my friend had which inspired me to own one too. maybe it's just my dream to be able to take the helmet off and shake my hair out. or maybe it's because it's up there with being an assassin slash spy... fucking badass.

so anyway, i took the hill at top speeds, eyes watering with wind and fear and the understanding that at the speed i was going, the scooter was either going to slide out underneath me if i turned the handlebars and jack my body up in the air like a ragdoll before shattering on the pavement... or was going to keep on the straight and narrow, not turn the handlebars but go straight for the mailbox and hope to somehow gingerly fly by it into the neighbors rose bushes. i opted for the latter, but narrowly missed the rosebushes because my body had smashed directly into the brick heathen, as my scooter went on to the brambles.

it was one of those times that everything is happening so fast around you, and your heart is dancing the night away with adrenaline, and you are aware that you have about 3.4 seconds before you are going to make it out unscathed or epically fail...

but life holds it's frames in slow motion, and your thoughts are clear and poignant and articulated. you see everything in this soft, underwater world where gravity doesn't really exist and at that one moment, you know that anything could happen. anything. beauty, breakdown, soaring, or diving... all of the contradictions are complete and you feel, well, unreal. drowning in lucidity, reeling with unknown.

i hit the mailbox, yes. smashed into it and hugged it and knocked myself out. i flew full force into that thing, the same way i do everything else in life. looking back writing this, it was my first memorable venture into what i realize now... calculation is just not for me. maybe if i would have planned out the turn before the big hill, i wouldn't have generated that much speed. it would have been rational, and calm, and i would have all the ability in the world to avoid the blood-pumping adrenaline junkie high right before the crash.

fuck it. i don't care anymore. i guess i didn't care then, either. fuck calculating and planning and freaking out. so many people make decisions based on someone else. take than hairpin turn. be the scooter speedracer and laugh into the wind. you feel it. you know it. so why don't you just go with it and let things take you away? i would crash into a mailbox seventeen times over if it meant i didn't have one more day of someone telling me i'm not planning for the crash correctly. and i don't give a shit what those airline attendants say, the tray tables being in a locked and upright position will have nothing to do with my safety as we plummet thirty-five thousand miles to our 'final destination.' we are going to die, motherfuckers. let me lay my god-damned head on the fucking tray table. fuck.

in the end, i want to know i did it my way, no doubts. i want to sinatra that shit, bitches.

hope alls well. but v.v.land is open for business.


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