I haven't been writing much lately. I've been reading a little instead, trail riding, stretching more, and running regularly. All of my favorite ways to adjust to the change of season and dropping temps.

September from start to finish was still morbidly hot and a total blur.
I spent it hurting from a crash into a brutally hard fence in the final sprint out of the last corner at the Tour of Austin. The rest of the time off and in bed I tried to focus on how to better let go of the crash and not to be angry about it. Andrew helped a lot along the way and by October I was able to run again. Naturally, I did so daily for two weeks straight. My first ride back was the North American bicycle courier championships which I didn't do very well in but I wanted to go to just to be around the whole messenger culture since it had been so long since the last NACCC I did in 2002. The best part was seeing a familar face or two and all the heckling going on along the sidelines going on from Andrew, Logan, Heath & Sharron.
During the courier race it was like going back to visit school grounds I grew up in but finding all the buildings and land have since been remodeled or completely renovated. It all felt vaguely familiar, but like trying to remember a dream after waking, only hints of familiarity. Nothing concretely nostalgic. If there is such a thing.

Despite not keeping up with writing, I still feel the desire to record the beauty I see in the world around me; but I'm doing so in different ways. Like sharing it a bit more privately, not in as many traditional mediums. It's the way it has to be for the place I'm at and probably will be this way for some time. I'm trying to keep up with photographing and keeping my libraries current and organized. Still full of inspiration, but within the inspiration, a new inspiration is born. I'm now learning how to grow into it all, old and new. I'm keeping up, or trying my best to keep up with but doing so quietly. As if acquiring a covert collection of all of my favorite things for preservation and refinement, only to one day pop open like a bottle of champagne at the blink of a new year.

Not to say that I'm at a failure to produce or follow art right now. It shouldn't be classified as a failure at all, of any sort, but more a way of internalizing this energy and keeping all inside, like fuel for the coming journey.

Or I'll sign off with this instead...


Reaching my voice over miles and miles to touch another quiet voice. The strangeness of love, longing, jealousy, like doors brushed with fingertips. Open some, keep others closed, others try to open a little, peeking inside the peephole.
Ghost colored dust blanketing the lampshades, the silent glow of 60 watt luminescence.
The drifting of separate people, each occupied in separate ways.
Big blue eyes and sun freckles.
The smell of earth, rotten wood, crumbling moss, the sent of damp cedar.
The debate about whether to replace, make new again, silence.
The sound of breathing. These are what my dreams are like.