PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The first I heard of the monastery was when a friend of mine showed me a bundle of sage that he said he bought in the canyon. But to call him friend, I'm afraid, is a romanticization, because he was more accurately a mere acquaintance, though certainly an individual I would've fancied friendship with. I admired him; we just didn't click. He liked to race his car through the winding roads down there, in the canyon. Boy was he known for that car. It was his pride-and-joy project as a practicing mechanic, and very much one of those defining qualities that put him high on the map of social status at our school---at least in my eyes. We shared a few interests, rock climbing being one, and overall our personalities were well-suited to eachother; except for the fact that where he had swag, well, I had schizophrenia, and thus my synergies always suffered; my anxieties tended to wall me off from the world.

We were sitting at a picnic table outside the liquor store where us young smokers would gather after class for a puff and chat. His E30 was parked peripherally in all its glory, red and shining like an angry ladybug ready to rumble-rumble and fly away. He had just finished bragging to me about how he whipped through the canyon the other day in record time (just over 2 minutes) simultaneously while getting head from one of the hottest chicks in school and how the bundle of sage was his trophy that he rewarded himself with. As he told me this he turned the pale sticks around in his hands and looked at them sparkly-eyed... seemingly sad and unfulfilled. I suspect he was probably caught in longing for something greater in life. Anyways, when he took a breath from all the bragging I was finally able to inquire about the monastery. I was bubbling eager and giddy inside.

"There's a monastery in the canyon?!"

I rushed myself to research, and there it was, a beautiful brick building, nestled in the canyon. I found sanctuary I found sanctuary! I often fantasized about monkhood, and just like that it became more accessible than I ever imagined. Now, since I didn't drive, nor even have a license for that matter, I mentioned it to my best friend (someone I could feel comfortable with) who did. "Sure, I'll chauffeur," he said.

*

For the most part I did just fine commuting to any desired destination via bicycle; I had never yet ventured the valley, though, and even if there were bikelanes it's still a crazy ride. Dangerous, spiralling descents and steep hills to climb. There was however like 1 foot of shoulder, barely sufficient space for cars to pass you "safe" but only if you can manage to stay perfectly straight, regardless of rocks that obstruct your anorexic lane that if you don't dodge swift might jolt you and your skinny tires swivelling into oncoming traffic. Not to mention those roads were notorious for drunk drivers. Occassionally you heard gossip of someone driving off a cliff, proven too when me and my family spotted a car totalled at the bottom of a ravine off to the side. We later discovered that whoever was in it had died.

The bike was a birthday blessing from my father. It was the one he used when he competed in triathlons once upon a time, but it was eventually forgotten to the garage to gather a blanket of dust which covered its carbon frame. I happened to be poking my nose around that cluttered cemetery of fettered memories and was struck suddenly by a radiant red sparkle. The stallion called me to saddle, so to speak. I asked my dad if I could clip in and give it a whip and when he agreed to this we commenced to hose it down. Then he provided some basic instructions about this type of bike, such as setting the saddle-height and pumping up the tires properly. He recognized how stoked I was the second I hopped on that thing and soon decided to hand it over for good. 

*

Oh dear, I suppose I should start focusing on the monastery more. Though I don't see the sense in force-feeding a singular subject when the story itself might wish to reminisce upon the infinite sweetness this given existence has to offer. Reaching a certain point, it seems to me, a commited choreography---you know like putting the past onto paper---requires a sort of supernatural symbiosis with script, a love-language, regardless of the method one chooses to utilize hereby: either a free-flow expressionist who calmy conjurs life's chaotic collage (PAST PRESENT FUTURE), a dare-I-say aimless amalgamation of events that chanced a part in the miracle of who you are, or the super strict celibate, that chap who broods daylong about whether including this word or that is absolutely necessary, and then, with bent and throbbing brow, grunts (not sighs), and shuts his tired eyes again, much too tight, commencing to consider through the night what word might work better as a replacement, going on like this forever till he perceives perfection never.