In a straightaway I'm slower on my bicycle than a car, but I retain an edge in agility and I disobey the law. These are really the advantages. City cycling is a ballet of sorts, a thing of rhythm and unity in motion. There are a plethora of variables that enter and exit your equation as you ride block to block. Car door, hill, streetlight, jogger, dog walker, left turn only, yadda yadda yadda. The ability of a rider to carve through time, to see ahead as a speed chess player does -- not with absolute precision, but with sufficient confidance to make a move without pausing for conscious thought -- is the differentiator between recreational cyclists and true riders.

It is the difference between tourism and adventure, between a pleasent diversion and a lifestyle choice.

My position in the world as a rider colors my other experience. I'm comfortable, even desirous of sustained physical exertion. I am comfortable with my sweat, comfortable playing with degrees of energy and torque that could be lethal if misapplied. I am urban calvary. Riding thrusts you into your environment just as driving a car removes you from it; when in transit I exist in a public space, subject to the same forces as any other object of being. This changes the way you feel about your cubicle at work, your room at home, your booth at the bar, etc etc etc.

Lately as I've been down and out some, I've taken to riding hard and high to work through things. Methodically climbing big hills in SF, I answer questions to myself; I ruminate, preachify, storm and thunder, rhapsodize; all to the rhythm set up in my thighs and pushed through my knees to my feet to the pedal crank chain gear spoke weel tube rubber road. Higher and higher. With my slick set of wheels geared all the way down, dropping one leg's full pistoning potential will cause my front end to kick up off the street even on the steepest of car-chase hills. Iggy Pop; raw power is sure to come running to you.

There's something to this, to the working and maneuvers. The downhill glee, and the syncopation of threading through other objects in motion. When I swing around a corner on a steady great arc, passing pretty crosswalk girls close enough to carry an eddy of perfume in my wake there's a thrill of quality and excellence that's absolutely priceless and addictive. There's an edge of death and danger and reptilian satisfaction to all of this, and it colors the rest of my experience. The life of a rider is saturated and high-contrast, and when we fall off our horses, there's nothing for it but to get back up and ride again.

You know, I get emails sometimes from my friends back in New York, people doing art and making fun bits of fancy. And I IM with random kids I've met through MfA and politics; child prodegy in Alaska; highschool punk rocker facing expulsion over asking questions about a teacher getting fired, his dad's been called up to serve a two year hitch; Mordecai, etc. I talk to two early-teen kids on their way to the mall via caltrain, they want to know about my shoes, what I do, so I give them a card. They're surprised I've never been to the Hillsdale mall, that I don't own a car, but they seem to think it's cool too.

I read things about what other people think is important, what other people believe in, what other people organize their lives around, and some of it makes sense and a some of it doesn't, but what's missing is something that works for me. What is it, excatly, that I'm trying to accomplish here... am I just trying to assuage my concience so I can go back to making art? Seems it's become something more than that, but why and what exactly it's become is confounding at the moment.

What am I capable of? How wide a gap can I bridge? Does it make sense to hold on to anarchists and rebel leaders with one hand and establishment electoral politics with another? Is it even possible to be a conduit for that kind of energy transfer? Does being involved in technology and culture help? Do I have credibility? Am I cool enough to attempt this? To what extent should I plan and control, and to what extent should I cut loose and ride the lightning?

Looking back on a year, I don't exactly know how I got here or even precisely where I am. I'm not complaining, just pointing out the presence of mystery and confusion. What's my role here? Good question.

I feel good. After a high-pressure February, I find myself relaxed, relatively fit, and confident about the future. I'm looking forward to getting away from it all, and finding the next short-term focal point, but my general feeling is positive. I'm breathing deeply and enjoying simple sensations like bananna eating and bike riding.

If there's anyone else out there who liked reading atlases as a kid, you'll love this site as much as I do: NationMaster.com.

This weekend I did a panel with several Hiphop activists and the one and only KRS-1. I also took in some of the new stuff that's coming out of working-class and suburbia caucasia. I wrote it all up on my MfA blog. More will come, but read that for now.

This next week is going to be a doozy. I may find the jangled energetic fortitude to make dispatches from the front; maybe I"ll take that scene over to MfA. Dunno quite yet.

Hey. Sorry for leaving that mopey post up for so long. I've been busy and things are better. My bike seat's been stolen twice, but Frank is moving in and MfA is taking off. I've got all kinds of things to write about, but no time for anything at the moment. I haven't even called my mom!

I feel good about a lot of things; things are still moving.

I'm down in my spirits lately; flipping through my iPhotos on the caltrain and wondering what happened. Looking back on good friends, good times. Ren Fayre. Realizing that was a long time ago, almost two years. Nostalgia is a gloss, I know, but still. Even though I'm well aware that my inner monologye is often rife with angst and pathos, this latest turn feels somehow different, more severe.

I look back on what my life used to be like; 20 or 30 hours of work a week and almost limitless hours for creativity and fun, realize I'm profoundly tired of fighting.

But I'm not loving either. That doesn't seem to happen to old me, captain of inertia, newly hewn heart of stone and all that jazz. My limbic system is quiet; my blood sluggish. I couldn't get baccinalian if I tried it seems. Running low on the old outlandish swagger. I am tired/I am weary/I could sleep for thousand years.

This worries me. Will I become one of those tight and nervously bound creatures; the kind who sieze up and shy away when you tickle at their root? I used to be more brazen and thirsty when it came to seeking pleasure, but as of late knotty tension has become my albatross.

In the grander scheme of things there's plenty of hope. I still get excited with the wheeling and dealing; would that I could write more openly about all that, but suffice to say you'll know all about it soon. I still get a thrill from solidarity, still enjoy goofing off. The world is still arousing, just in a more whistful and less full-bodied way.

I miss the old network, the old support, the old goals and magic. Childhood's end, and I miss my Peter Pan jive. But something big is still going to happen, and I don't trust the course of human events to work themselves out. I hope we can win, and I hope if we do I have the presence of mind to start playing again.

What would Allen Ginsburg do? Breathe deep. That's a good place to start.

Swirling malcontented winds of impotence; it's hard to watch the ship go down. Like having your testicles in a a cold vice. First a shinking and then a crushing. There's a proven correlation between winning and testosterone, something to do with vigor and vitality. I'm a little bit hollow lately; not beaten by any stretch, but empty of a great many things. Nobody likes loosing, feeling like a looser.

Everyone wants a piece of something. I'm not sure what it is that people think we've got here. I seem to have lost some of my bearings -- don't know what I want anymore. What to believe. And where the hell is this going? Can you tell I'm confused? Need to go up on a mountain or something, get my shit sorted out.

But there's no time for mountain climbing at the moment. We're getting into a big push for music for america. Time to dig deep and find some inner veins of fortitude for the next two weeks. Then strike a more equitable balance in life. I'd like to have fun again. You can't beat fun; but it's a lot easier said than done.

Feel like a dick after laying into two of my friends over long but silently held differences of opinion. It's in my genes to argue, to try and drive the knife home. You should see family get togethers on my mom's side. However, this isn't conducive to respect or understanding or growth or progress and I aught to knock it off. I aught to be able to discuss things rationally with people and try to draw them out rather than beat them down. I aught to be able to listen and learn as well.

My own stress level, general loneliness and frustrations... they don't help to curb the roll you get on when you're attacking someone. It's an ugly little power trip; I hope apologies will put things in order. I also hope the topics I breached will remain alive as well.

Upcoming Gigitry: Future of Music/Noisepop panel.

This is my new favorite read: The Ghastly Mess LiveJournal. I've been hoping Nick would publish himself, and apparently he's been at it for a while. He's blending the tools of the early 21st century with the style of the late 19th; check it out.