Sometimes on long weekends I indulge in little obsessions. My attention will be caught by some new object or idea and I will allow my brain to run full-throttle in that direction, sifting through all the options, scenarios, accessories, ect. associated with my new addiction. Usually things quiet down soon enough after the realities of daily work and limited finances have time to penetrate the passionate dreaming---like the time I thought I was going to build an 1899-vintage track bike replica by welding up my own frame---someday perhaps, but the wild enthusiasm has boiled off to a calm, distant desire. On other occasions, these notions have a bit more staying power, mostly because they are more modest in scope and practical in execution. The current project is to craft my own commuter/messenger bag from, among other things, salvaged materials of a nature I haven't figured out just yet, and an old seatbelt for a strap. This idea is much more within the reach of practicality, so it just might actually happen; especially because my loving wife has agreed to sew it all up for me, one skill which, alas, I do not possess. The primary motivation for this venture is the gross price I encountered for any purchasable bag that I would be willing to wear: $50 minimum, rising to $200+! (I'm way too cheap for that kind of dough!) I admit that I spent far too much time online looking for a good cycling bag to replace my fraying, ugly, too-small one, and though I didn't gain a product, I gained ideas: one person (on Etsy.com) used recycled hang-glider material; another used sailing ship canvas; and my favorite one used old sheets of billboard ads. That is an awesome form of recycling! Now to think of something just as cool for my own creation...

12:02 AM

I have consumed a copious amount of Session Lager.
I am hopelessly riveted to a newly discovered online comic called Questionable Content.
I want to stay up and draw pictures.
I am wired.
I am going to bed.

In the life of anyone with an artistic temperament, habits, interests and any other pursuit which captures the mind and spirit, the life of the melancholic artist is a series of fits and starts, forgotten passions, and rediscovered loves. I am no different, and it seems I am always picking up something that was left behind at one point, or stumbling across some new excitement, only to change once again, albeit often subtly. There are times when this is disorienting, even frustrating, but I love the adventure, the romantic longing, continual renewal that it creates; and anyway, I couldn't change it without destroying something of myself in the process. Better to experience deeply and take the sad and lonely bits with the peaceful and happy ones than to live blandly, I say.

As if by way of proof of these musings, blog posting is so often sporadic and disconnected, but that is partly why you read here, right? Well, if you are curious as to what holds my attention at the moment, check out 140 Bricks for the ongoing battle to keep my vintage Volvos alive, and Imperfect'd for other projects I've been busy with---a new fixed gear build is peeping over the horizon...

I think I am finally turning into a real bicycle commuter. My trusty fixed gear cycle is now outfitted with lights, fenders have been ordered, and it has toe clips and straps; though I insist on riding brakeless for the time being. As for myself, I cleaned up my old helmet and (grudging) have started wearing it. There is little more distasteful than wearing a bike helmet in my book, but I have decided that if I am riding every day, on city street during rush hour, I really ought to take precautions. I also ordered some wool gloves for the chilly morning ride. Pretty much all set, I guess...I just have to wait for my body to get into the swing of nine miles a day again (round trip). However, it is unlikely that I would get much in the way of serious exercise without this riding to my carpool thing, so I am happy. (Plus it saves lots of cash on gas!) I feel great by the time I get to work, and the ride home is relaxing and reflective. The times they are a' changin'---I'm supposed to be a car guy, right?

Must have gotten into some idiot pills by mistake...this is a ridiculous day. I can't remember anything, can't focus...

At least I am laughing.

I hate work.

I just want to go home and ride my fixed gear Trek...




...

I have been watching the BBC series Planet Earth recently, and it is quite stunning. There is so much good that could be said about it, so much praise I could offer, that I will refrain from writing a whole paragraph and simply say: if you haven't watched it, you should.


I just can't get over the parasitic fungi in the rainforest episode...reminds me of Nausicaa in the poisoned forest...

This is perhaps the most beautiful blend of art and bicycle I have seen yet...absolutely lovely.



More pictures of it here under 'bicycles'.

Many many months have passed since I pursued, with any real gusto, the urges to write, and even, for the most part, the desire to draw. Creative outlets in general have taken a back seat, after coming right up to the point of (almost) actually self-publishing and selling artwork. Visions float through my head of never being anywhere without a good pencil and a battered leather-bound book of empty pages to fill with scribble; but the truth is, I DO carry around a handful of paper and graphite utensils (albeit, in somewhat less romantic form than described above) most places I go, and guess what? That's right, mostly blank. So what is wrong? I know what I want to write about, I can clearly envision the drawings I wish to scratch out. Am I creatively lazy? Maybe. But I think it has a lot to do with being distracted by things that simply cannot be ignored: wife, baby, two jobs, ailing car, etc. It is always easier to accomplish a tedious task or scramble to meet a goal not set by yourself than it is to sit down quietly by the window and pour something rough and mysterious out of your soul and onto blank paper---that smooth expanse, so empty and white and intimidating---but there is also an element of satisfaction and contentment in my life that dissipates so many of the emotions and tragedies that would otherwise overpower my melancholic personality and demand to be recorded. It's sort of like what Rilke says in Letters to a Young Poet, about how the artist or writer who wishes to be great must be sure to be lonely, isolated, acutely aware of tragedy and pain and sadness in life. I think there is a lot of truth in that sentiment, and now that I have a family, all that misery and longing that was so delicious and debilitating when I was single is pretty well abated. Not that I don't still, at times, steep myself in a pretty sadness or savor the idea of a tearful and passionate tragedy; it is merely that there isn't a lot of time for that sort of behavior anymore, and more to point, there is a lot less occasion and cause for it. All that being said, I intend to cling to my romantic notions and to hold dear the memories of my searching sleepless drama from times past, and as life unwinds, perhaps there will be an appropriate time and place for the sort of creativeness I crave...I hope it is soon.

What a week.

Old phone died, brand new replacement phone would not hold a charge for some reason. Transmission is going in the 145, which, being our daily driver presents the nasty reality that we do currently have a reliable source of transportation. AC is sick. Super-sick. And of course, her illness flared up only hours after I left for New Orleans to be gone for four days. Had to be in Louisiana for a wedding, which cost a lot more than anticipated, though I'm not going to say I regret going; it was pretty awesome overall, except for knowledge that my wife was miserable back at home. These things will sort themselves out to be sure, but for the moment, I am allowing myself a brief grumble. On a positive note, the weather has finally turned from frustrating and nearly unbearable heat to a hint of real Fall crispness, and that is aspirin for my tired soul.

What did I think of New Orleans? Well, the French Quarter was very enjoyable and interesting by day---but after a night on Bourbon St. for a bachelor party (not my idea), I found myself thinking: there are a lot of ways to find one's self on a fast track to the Abyss, and this has got to be one of the more effective ones. In a word, I was disgusted with what I saw. I did however encounter some cool fixed gear bikes, but being a slow and clumsy photographer I missed the girl riding a hot converted mixte up and down the cobble-stones. The bright blue one with the riser bars beside the fifty-story office building made me smile at the thought of a young professional confounding his bosses when he pedals up in the morning in his tie and clipless shoes, grinning and sweaty. Too bad I didn't get a shot of that one either. Overall, I would like to return to New Orleans someday, but I wasn't impressed as much as I had expected to be. Apologies to anyone who finds my review narrow or offensive...I guess I must be a little too Yankee.

Awesome or stupid???

Anyway, I'd ride it!

This is for Charlie