Disorder

1. Hurt
Drunken nights breed ugly thoughts

Despair stains sleeved skin
Nothing a little time won't kill
Small and benign wallflowers, yet impolite and crude

2. Help
You? There's no way...
I try to explain the eager urges. The enticing hunger.
The itch and festering, dark and unmanageable
trembling in my skull

3. Relapse
Clinging to feigned hope
I am healthy, I think. A call for celebration
I drink. And think...
Ugly thoughts

Musings & Announcements

You are the one with the sun and spray,

the pavement and painted lines. (Pugh, Molly)

From a very young age, my bike has always been my trusty companion. I rarely leave my house without it! One could say I have a very close relationship with it -- not as an object, but as a symbol. It was Childhood when the South Beach's salt rusted its body, carried candy from the Island Market, and clunked together with my tennis racket. It was Risk and Freedom when I rode home from my girlfriend's house in valley fog and darkness. It was Identity Formation when it supported me on a pilgrimage of minimalism and samaritanism. It was Escape when it stole me away from the hot-headed arguments with my parents. It brought Purpose when it pulled me away from suicide and depression.

have you not felt

what it is like to escape

or has nothing ever caused you

to run away

I cannot imagine my life without it, but sometimes I take it for granted. Last summer, I led adaptive cycling rides for people of all abilities. One participant who came along was visually impaired, and brought new insight into what it means to appreciate the sport that I cherish so dearly. I came to process my surroundings in a more meaningful and immersive way. I remember that we were once riding in the Cascade Foothills on a day with brilliant sunshine and clarity. 

What do you see? She asks.

Rhubarb. Lots of it... And?

And mountains, and heat waves, 

and kids jumping on trampolines, and--

She smiles. I love rhubarb.

Yesterday, I dreaded the thought of pedaling indoors for as little as a half hour. I am in the fifth week of training for my competitive season. This is an average of 15-18 hours a week on top of school, work friends, and my pooch. After my chore list is done and the sun has set, it's on to the stationary bike in my garage. I usually focus on my visible breath and drown out the fatigue with Netflix. Last week, I watched Lilo & Stitch (2002), The Way (2010), Food Inc. (2008), and a whole lot of Master of None. I complain about it a lot, but it is by choice. I am training to compete at three events that will make me eligible for nationals. When my muscles seize and the sweat stings my eyes, I am staring at a sticker on my handlebars. It reads "RF 471," in honor of a member of my racing community that passed away in an accident. This event helped me reevaluate my motivations and goals. No matter how hard I work or do not work, I have to be thankful for this privilege because racing is ultimately just for fun. Bike riding has led me to several supportive communities at Old Town Bicycle, Metro Parks Tacoma, the Northwest Collegiate Cycling Conference, and the WWU Outdoor Center.

I wept for his death

but also because he lost the very thing

I could not stand to lose

And now, in a way, my bike has led me to my field of study. Recreation and leisure services is centered around providing and/or facilitating recreation to others. My cohort contains some of the brightest and most passionate leaders I have ever encountered. There are NOLS alumni, veterans, cancer survivors, mountaineers, and mothers. I think I had briefly lost myself in admiring these folks that I had forgotten to live my own life. Truthfully, I was aspiring to be more like my peers without being true to myself. I became captivated with the idea of being a backpacking or whitewater rafting guide, while the most sacred and authentic answer was right in front of me all along. I know that maybe one day I'll find myself on the Wonderland Trail or Yakima River leading a group of people. But for now, I think I belong on a bike, pedaling around -- maybe helping others pedal around along the way.

To these ideals, 

which were instilled in me when I was a youth, 

I attribute in a large degree the success that was mine 

on the bicycle tracks of the world. (Taylor, Marshall "Major")

And with that, I'm proud to announce that I'll be a youth mentor and ride leader with the Major Taylor Project for the next six months. This program strives to empower young people by teaching them about cycling, healthy living, and community/social ties. As part of the Major Taylor family, I hope to help teenagers realize that they have the tools to help bring them happiness, freedom, and success, just as I do. 

Souvenir

The hallways of my house echo a lonely tune. My gaze skips across a sea of streetlamp beams. Framed by an inviting window, a homey shadow goes about its business. My mind wanders past what I can see: bags stuffed with clothes, scribbled goodbye letters, pieces of the life she is leaving behind. As the glowing window beckons to me, I know that mine is closing.

My thoughts peer into her entryway. In an instant, my feet register the cold reality of nighttime concrete. My knock asks for entry, and the door swings open. She sings a welcoming hello. Our embrace is close and warm.

We almost slip into a prescribed distance, but she catches me off guard. “Can you come sit over here?” she confidently laughs. My inquisitive look poses a question. Eyes gleaming, she only smiles in approval.

We are speaking words, but the conversation is taking place elsewhere. A sweeping gesture brings my hand just an approving nod away from her cheek. Her legs are tangled in mine. A curious finger brushes my side. I trace the arc of her loose bangs, trickling down around her cheek, her dimples… Her lips.

Leaning in, I lend a short peck, then a slightly longer one. Her eyes spell a yearning proposition, and I nod. She pulls me in with a sharp breath, and takes my mouth as a souvenir. Swirling, melting, and tingling. A passing, rolling wave in the belly of an ocean. And though it is not a kiss of promise, it is all I want to know.

You Are Not Okay

Hey. It's me.
We haven't talked in a while.
I feel like you're ignoring me.
And that's not okay.

Remember when we were close? When we used to talk in the trees behind the neighborhood, just you and I? I swear in those moments there was never a Back Then or Years From Now.

But you've set on and left.

I am watching.
Your zipped and toothless smile, fake
happy eye stones glazed over
A fleeting moment, scurrying away
to A While --
Where the heartbreak beats
Once in...
I see you.

You can fool them,
these people who don't know you. At least...
They don't know you like I do.
My bones own your etched secrets. My skin knows
what you see in your nude reflection.

You shaky soul, fizzing in bottle's neck.
Spinning wheel and no traction.
You golden heart
painting crooked colors.
The unbecoming rage and violence,
flaw and unfit and pandemonium.
I feel you.

And I know you. And you
are not okay.
Take it from me. I'm telling you
that's okay.

Coyotes and Chinook

The air was dark and thick. The breath of city machines had exasperated my lungs. "Look!" My friends pointed. I felt prickles of humbling fear and respect travel down my spine as I counted silhouettes, forgetting that our car might incur a parking ticket. One, two... three four five... six? Coyotes crouched low between beams of streetlamp light, slipping away with each gust of calm air. In the warmth of the California night, I was reminded of a Yakama tribe tale -- the story of the two winds.

~

The winding rivers of the Colombian Plateau are said to freeze over when the Walla Walla Brothers cause chilling winds to blow from the northeast. In response, the Chinook Brothers call warm air from the southwest to temper the cold. Long ago, the two groups entered a fierce competition with each other, causing floods that destroyed the river folks' villages. However, Coyote intervened. Though he was cunning and an opportunist, he cared for the humans. Coyote picked off those who were weak from battle until only two were left. He forced the brothers to cease their war, suggesting that the Walla Walla blow less severely, and that the Chinook should only blow harshly during the night. And with that, Coyote gave the people a fair and tolerable climate.

~

Tolerable climate indeed. 55 degrees on a night in December! Thanks Coyote. I continued up with my two friends. They stopped at what we dubbed the "make out point," but I stole away in the moonlight, higher towards the glowing structure overlooking the city. Every step scraped at silt, piercing the silence of the night. As I grew closer, I noticed a balcony suspended about ten feet off the ground. I leaped up and pulled myself up to face a guardrail, lodging myself in a concrete nook. After shimmying up, I safely hopped the railing, which brought me to an area with "Staff Members Only" signs all around. Not a single sentry, cricket, or snake stirred in the shadows. The stillness of the moment put me elsewhere.

~

I thought of a time two weeks ago with my roommate, Matt. At the Connelly Creek bridge crossing, a woman stopped us and nodded in the direction of two adult salmon, slowly waving their bodies in the current. I stood in admiration, and dwelled on the feeling even though we continued on. I turned to Matt and said, "That was beautiful." "Yeah," his inflection expressed disagreement. Indeed, their skin appeared a muddy green in the water, and was torn with evident signs of struggle. But that wasn't the point. It was the absence of grace, and the grit of their determination that was attractive to me.

~

I took to heart the words of two bicycle tourists that I recently met. They were members of a self-proclaimed club called The Salmons. Being a Salmon meant to go against the current; to take the hardest path possible no matter the odds. It was not about making things harder than they should be. It was about making things harder because they can be.

A handful of years ago, I wanted to experience what it was like to live on $2.50 a day while also traveling by bike. On the third day, I distinctly remember climbing up Cayuse and Chinook Passes -- three grueling hours of gravity tugging at my 75 pound setup and 140 pound flesh. My sustenance for those three hours was a cheese with peanut butter cracker every half hour. Needless to say, I was on the verge of collapse by the end. With the sun low, it was time to find shelter in the Mount Rainier wilderness on foot. As I was readying my supplies, I was approached by a group of women who graciously offered me cookies and beer (the two greatest things that can be offered next to snuggles and cupcakes). As I sat on the tailgate of these women's truck, they asked what possessed me to do such a thing. "Because I can."

~

I gazed down at the grid engulfed by smog. It was a tamable and ugly beast. So harmless at this distance. In every linear vein was a stream of gleaming red and yellow, offset by the occasional flicker of red and blue. I thought of all the salmon and non-salmon; of the bears that clawed at those that dared to leap. What twinkles in this organism of concrete and glass were the weak and skin-torn salmon? It was impossible to tell at this distance, though I wanted to ruminate until daybreak.

The quiet was punctuated by the faintest of comforting warmth moving over my skin. In the corner of my eye, a watchful coyote crept in the brush.

Happiness

is fresh snow. Blanket forts.

Listening to a record start to finish. A glass of fine whiskey.

Flossing. Snuggles. Dogs and wine. A cat’s tail curled around your leg.

Getting horizontal. Wiggling your toes.

Sunshine. Ice cream cones. Beaches. Surfing. Boats. Beer.

Car rides with friends. A girl named Nicole. A dude named Jim… he’s pretty cute.

Camping under the stars. Observing the world:

the last edge of twilight in the sky, swooping nighthawks, noticing the moon,

thinking: Waffles the fish, waffles, sandwiches cut diagonally, sack lunches, sandboxes,

absurdly long German words, dogs eating peanut butter, yoga, board games,

flowers. Riding a bicycle. Frolicking with dogs. Disney movies. Netflix. Chilling.

Michael Cera. Kittens. Cats. Cats that look like burritos.

Really good burritos.

Cheesy sweaters. Wool socks. Floppy puppies.

Popping wheelies. Spinny chairs.

Waking up in a tent. In the woods, trees. Fog in trees. Sunbeams in trees.

Knowing nature doesn’t care if you’re hot or not.

Mountaintops. Topless people.

People’s butts. Holding people’s butts.

Being in the spotlight. Being high above; out; away. Being your own.

Singing in the shower. Dancing by yourself.

Learning something new. Overcoming limitations. Being passionate.

Acts of kindness. Seeing other people happy.

When everyone’s home. Hearing someone go on a tangent. Group hugs.

Door knocks. Recognizing someone’s laugh. Seeing an old friend.

Making someone smile. Holding hands. Giggling. Being kissed on the nose.

Hearing: “I love you.” Waking up next to someone.

7 A.M. on Sunday morning. Sisters. Smelling bacon. Coffee. Ocean breeze.

Watching the sunrise. Observing the world: serenity, glassy morning waves,

thinking: lying in fresh laundry, listening, living, remembering,

You.

Open Season on Antelope

I was a musical child. I would prance in the driveway, singing gibberish to myself, neverminding my neighbor’s shy smile. I never took lessons to sing, but I did it occasionally. I played the violin and the drums. And though my strict and formal musical training discouraged it, I loved to “noodle” – to make noise without a goal (it could hardly be called music). I would noodle quite often on my stringed instrument. My positioning would be improper. At a slouch, I would hold the neck of the violin pointed down at my feet, or overturned like a baby tiger cub engaging in play. Mother would walk in. She would prick my back with whatever she was holding at the time. “Stand up straight! Thumb bent, chin up, arms poised, and shoulders square!” She knew proper violin etiquette as much as I did. I think it was because she cared too much about me or my success. Or maybe she cared about authority, and abiding by rules.

I was a quiet child. My music was my voice, and that included noodling. “Stop that,” Mother would demand. I sensed that she despised noodling. She despised unruly behavior. I loved to noodle. And I especially loved it on the drums; I think most people do. Smashing and whirling worries and fury and ecstasy away in a flurry of waving arms and bouncing legs. “Stop that!” This time, I understood. Nobody wants to listen to unruly, loud drumming for too long. But that was my voice, and it was being silenced. I compromised, and my waving arms and bouncing legs relocated to the air, the furniture, and the kitchen counter. I initiated a drum roll on a wooden surface. With no hesitation, Mother raised her voice. “Stop that this instant, or I will give you a spanking!” I’d been spanked before by my mother. It was not pleasant.

But I was a defiant child. I stopped, but grabbed both drumsticks in one hand. “Mmph!” I playfully whipped myself with the pair of sticks, as if to say Come and get it. Something was amiss. My mother spanked me hard, pinched me, clouted my ear, but what I sensed coming was much worse. My mother, a lion, bolted for me, the antelope. I was nimble, athletic, and my mother was not. I could outrun her. But her primal instincts only fueled the chase. Food was about to be served. The antelope’s hooves slipped on linoleum, while the lion’s padded paws gave it the upper hand. The antelope was still able to outrun the lion, but into a dead end. It was a labyrinth canyon of a living room. The lion slowed to a saunter, knowing that it was victorious. Eyes fixed. Mouth foaming. Meanwhile the antelope frantically searched for an exit. It was to no avail.

I was dead meat. I was bent over the piano bench, though I was not being spanked. No, it was much worse. Mother confiscated my sticks and turned the instrument of my voice into the instrument of my torture. One, two. The blows were swift on my behind. Three. Blood gushed to the surface, but did not break the skin. Four. A heavy swat. The lion did not sink its teeth into the antelope. It brutally clawed at it. This lion liked to play with its food. Five. The antelope escaped the emasculating position, though the lion still clung and chased. My loose pajama shirt was an easy target for claws. Six. The whips were no longer hitting just my bottom. Claws tore at the antelope’s spine and its side. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. The lion did not feast upon the antelope. The antelope lay there, raw flesh exposed, unable to cry. “Don’t you ever dare have the tenacity to talk back to me like that. And don’t tell your father. Now go shower.”

I wearily marched upstairs and turned on lukewarm water, unable to process what just happened. I entered, breathlessly sobbing. “Why?” I cried! The antelope lay in a nighttime rainstorm, wishing for vultures, hyenas, insects. Hell, even another lion. Just not that one. I wished for death.

I was – I am… I am a damaged man.

*

I don’t remember if everything that I wrote actually happened. What I do know is that I was nine years old at the time and I was indeed beaten with my drum sticks, though I exaggerated the severity of my injuries in order to get across a point. I also could not capture the complex dynamic relationship between me and my mother without writing a hundred pages – many more motives were involved. I am fairly certain that I was instructed not to speak of the incident, but my memory may be failing me. This lack of memory is not because it happened so long ago; it’s because it was too brutal of a memory to live with.

I had intermittent suicidal thoughts and severe depression for different reasons from age 9 to 15. I won't share the other reasons, but physical and verbal abuse – and the subsequent emotional neglect – was one of them. However I am extremely glad to be here today and know that I have many people who love and care about me.

I see so many of you posting and arguing about gun control, gender equality, and climate change. That’s awesome that you are willing to share your opinion regarding something that affects humankind. I am proud of you for speaking up, especially given how young the large majority of you are. You are breaking the stereotype that young people do not have a voice, and if they do, they are not well-educated. Unfortunately, I’ve kept my silence and observed these arguments from afar because my stake in the matter is not significant, I am not as educated on the matter as you are, because arguing over the internet is impersonal and encourages people to say things that they would not say to other people’s faces, or because one of my defining characteristics is that I avoid conflict. You bring these issues to the table – thank you. We are talking about them in politics, at the dinner table, and in our places of learning. It is imperative that we continue to do that. But I’ve kept my silence for too long. I was afraid that people would not believe me, but I am also afraid that what I present as the truth is merely what I have convinced myself is the truth. This is my issue that I am bringing to the table. You may think that my issue is a thing of the past, but like we are discovering with racism and sexism in the modern world, it merely evolves over time and manifests itself in a different way. 

So now that I have stopped providing background on myself, I would like to begin an open letter to you – my Facebook friends. It’s very brief, though I should thank you for making it this far. It applies to a very specific demographic, but really, it is directed at all of you, because all of you have the potential to commit what I am speaking of. All I am going to say is: “If you ever have or will inflict physical harm upon your child, partner, or those under your care… STOP IT. RIGHT NOW.”