a muse?

Had an interesting month so far. I've been busy with work, sank myself into projects that bring allot into play in one way or another. Not too sure why except to keep myself busy.

I took to the canvas again. I wasn't sure when I would be able to as each time I attempted to draw I'd wind up getting frustrated and ripping it apart. It seemed that something was stopping me, I was trying do create art for the sake of creating art. That doesn't work for me.

I was invited to a graduation party that happened to take me near Lisa's house. It was weird going down that road again, as I could start checking off mentally those I've dated around that area. Like it was some cluster of sorts due to fate. My gixxer hasn't been running top yet since I discovered the engine was basically a huge one shoe-horned into a small frame and have been trying to get the parts together for a big overhaul to the correct ones, but it's running fine enough to ride; it just clogs the valves every once and a while with carbon. Well being caught at the light and just sitting there with noone around I decided to tach it up and clean the valves (I always love watching the purple/blue/yellow flames shoot out from the tailpipe) and wondered if she'd even recognize it...

I got a page a few minutes later as I'm going down the road from a different person that did hear me. It was damn odd. I was right but I was wrong.

Made me wonder if I never would've found that bar that night I ran out of gas so many years ago. How if I were to have just put in an extra gallon or even cup of gas in the tank. My life would've been different in so many ways. Worse or better? How can one even guess at such a thing, I was simply wondering about all the slight turns in life that make us who we are, what we are lucky enough to experience with the good and the bad. So I pondered that while racing down the highway; after all it was something to entertain for the ride.

Who has gone that fast in life? What is 170mph, what is 180. What does it take, working and slaving on machinery, for getting that last bit of speed. I went so fast I lost my visor because I was stupid enough to look up.

It clears the mind. In the northeast you can go for miles at a time without needing to turn. 3 miles are eaten up within a minute. Blink: I went a few exits. Flames pouring out of the back, heat everywhere. Me and MY machine. MY reality. If I crash I'm red muck on the road, but I've always lived thus. I've proved it with racing and little slips of paper, videos.

Enough metal from replaced bones and pain that I trip the detectors at the airport I'll be passing through in a few days. I keep quiet, it's my pain. No need to tell anyone that hasn't felt it, no need to explain it hurts beyond belief to be on top, no need to explain that my wrist alone cost me more out of my pocket than a BMW M3 would've. My decisions, my faults. My race.

But what am I racing towards? Surely not oblivion. Not running.

Chasing.

Wanting.

I push myself. I will always, because when I closed my eyes during that first kiss nothing could make my heart race as it once did. It's a shame that my attempts to find an outlet will never compare... so it's something I must live with, wonder about when I look at the stars.

There is no finish line, but the travels get you thinking.

It helps to clear the mind, because you can't think. You react. So was I reacting to my thoughts as I try to kick down a gear or two and get within 2x the legal limit? The cop that sees me, by the time he gets the car out of park I'm already 5 miles down the road; a blur.

What would've happened if I could change things?

Would it really be good or bad? Steph used to complain that I was always looking for a muse to help inspire what I do. In that she was true, I just wish that I could understand why.

So maybe I found mine, Melpomene. The muse of tragedy.

I wish I could understand, but I wish for quite allot at times. I sometimes wish I would've kept up with my school, been strong enough and dedicated enough to finish a PhD, but somewhere I realized I was screwed in the head too much to actually help anyone else out so I got a basic degree. I kept to what I knew: mechanical engineering, physics, logic that doesn't lie. But inside there is still the artists that feeds upon emotion: joy and sorrow, fate and tragedy, highs and lows. I remember reading a few studies about what makes people draw, write songs, become tyrants or peacemakers.

The canvas and I became partners again, except this time I hid the keys to my bike and car, pulled the old DXM-MAOI trick to separate myself. I knew from what I do know, and just failed to see was that what was going to happen was bound to happen, I just tried to hide myself from it and not believe it. I'm also tired of being right with so many things, even if it does make my job so much easier with work.

I drew. I watched myself draw. What I was drawing took a while to get started... it's those damned eyes that always take the most time. Once it was done, hours later and cramps in my legs and arms from standing in one position for all that time I just passed out on the floor. I woke up to my cat licking my face (his food was stuck in the feeder) and glanced at what I had created... and just sat there. I didn't even cover it up. It was like a dream that came to paper somehow.

I wouldn't call it my masterpiece, but it was raw and it had emotion all over it. That damned DXM. It turned me on in a way, and I realized what I did put down on paper wasn't just a person, but a feeling encompassed. It left an acidic bite to the eye, like one didn't want to look at it but simply HAD to.

Anyway I went out to the pool to relax under the sun and saw a few friends there. Afterwards we were hanging out talking about motorcycles (there's a few here, and we all seem to hang with each other, even the girls with scooters like to hang out) and someone needed to use my bathroom so they went in my house, he came out and asked what the fuck it was he just looked at. It wasn't a bad thing, but he said he couldn't stop looking at it. So his girlfriend went in there and said the same thing, she didn't know what or who it was she saw, she could see but she couldn't. It turned something on at the base of the spine, the body. I just shrugged because I had forgotten I didn't cover it, just kept mum about it. The girl up a few houses looked at it and wanted to buy it.

Lisa wasn't just someone, she was an idea. I got stuck again. My sister and I always talk about what makes us who we are with relationships, why we try to find ourselves in others. We are sluts, we know it. We acknowledge it.

What we want will never belong to us because we hope for so much. Comes from a fucked up upbringing and we've spent thousands of hours in therapy because of it.

I think sometimes we outscore our therapists.

So what was it that I drew? Something enough to turn on every guy and a few girls that look at Her. Maybe it's what she looks like, maybe not. I am not sure, I never will be. She'll never see it to compare and I refuse to look at past pictures.

This Sunday after watching Chevelle in concert I sorta knew at the after-hours party.

Art is the attempt at putting what goes on in the mind into some sort of physical substance.

I folded up everything before leaving this memorial day.

Fitting, how cycles can happen.