Aftermathamatical realities

After love, I believe change is our greatest truth. Through the summer I maintained that with bicycle touring, as with any great adventure, we were either running from something or to something, and I wonder now if that something is the change itself.

On the other side of summer, back in Chico Californialand, things move with the grace of squares slipping into spheres.

I have returned to a land of material make believe and ego implants.

The streets I knew as a child have come wrought with young men, desperate for acceptance; their future is an uncertain landscape of economic aggression. They offer little to the city beyond their fathers’ money and the Sally Mae loan they whittle away in any of the dozen sports bars.

Opposite them are the scantly clad housewife revolutionaries. Confused by their blooming sexuality, intoxicated with white privilege, and finally out of their fathers sight- they stir the flat brimmed designer stallions into a frenzy like pollen to the honey bee.

SUV’s and lifted F-150’s congest the greenways. Anthems of 50-cent and Guinn Stephani drone.

Douche bags and brutes.

There is no place like home

There is no place like home

There is no place like this.

I am growing roots. Clipping my wings. Performing mental emotional Judo with the blank stares and storefronts on the street. Erking through grocery isles and measuring the length of my stay by amounts Dill and Cumen I purchase. I take the licks to my heart and mend the bruise with places I know will always accept me. I ride the streets like I own them. And I do. I paid for them with my youth and everyday I settled with them as a teenager. And I pay now, as I watch them slip further into the homogeneous joy of pop culture keepsakes- the cars keep coming. Someday they may even catch me. If that day ever comes and it’s you behind the wheel, I hope you have money- because I’m going to take it all… and your fingers too.