Turning the Wheel

As I spun the wheels and sped, subconscious of the still freshly healed incision, hurt myself a little but did more good, I recognized. There is a moment. This is a time of anger hunting, stomping out violent nature, sledge-hammering the ways of peace into a stubborn warrior soul. Kill it where it is.

Also an evening of pulling out cars, menacing bumpers, crowded shoulders, speeding Volvos, a usual eye over the shoulder for the rampantly rabid vehicular person beating me to the intersection of futility and nowhere, wears like psychic sandpaper on the placidity. Too easily amused gives way to irritation, irritation to anger, anger to an AK-47 or RPG, air strikes, intercontinental ballistics, a common progression. My job not to get sucked into the violence vortex, the terror of territorialism, the alpha male malaise.

Avoiding my own death on behalf of the Volvo driver who should have been my keeper, there was a flicker, a spike, I readily admit, even though I know both driver and cyclist are me. One cannot be homicidal toward oneself, only suicidal. To resent anyone’s good fortune is to resent your own, to betray another to betray yourself, to accuse another to accuse you, we are all one.

Forgotten, the Volvo sped on, sadistic station wagon, a dark blue turbocharged box, leaving a slight petrochemical smell. Get the wagons in a circle, it’s a cyclist. Goodbye.

The physical existence is a great joy, the sensations and feelings, false isolation and ownership. Do not want: have. Inaction will achieve everything. Humility will rule, so the wisest have said. Kindness is godliness. Acceptance is the advice of the sage. Difficult it is to trade ecstasy for detachment as it is anxiety for inaction, yet this exactly. Surrender and be victorious. The universe is a construction of opposites and paradoxes. Get with the program.

Wheels turn, rubber rushes whistling over the road, rode by me, a cartoon. What is that mesh made of they put in me? I think I stretched it. Is that cool? My tire was round when I left but is flat now. Amazing how things transform seemingly at random. Time for a change, tired. I’m flat, now, too, except for the incision, waiting impatiently to be a scar.

Deleting my driver index, no longer calling them names, because they are me, my web page looks less cluttered. I think I did good.

Jess Killmenow.

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  • Kikipotamus  On 03/02/2011 at 2:45 pm

    What a brilliant job you do of showing that there is no other place but real life and its gritty quotidian grind to practice.

  • Jess Killmenow  On 03/02/2011 at 9:55 pm

    It’ll make you do it, eventually. Yes, it will.

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