Once, long ago, I told a Pagan hoodoo of my acquaintance the way the dubious phantasm of reality can sometime shift, fracture, warp, break, and come together once more that I shed my metaphysical skin more than a snake. She did not see a snake or any other form of reptile when it came to me. Instead, she said she saw the owl. It's those unnaturally large eyes of mine, see? I was young and impressionable, and took it somewhat to heart, remembering others, like the fucking indian, who would say owls and I were kinfolk, but that's another story.
Back when I lived down below, aside from footwalkers, of which I was one of that ilk, I knew a fair amount of cats who, whilst owning a mechanized vehicle, rarely drove. Perhaps only when requiring longer-distance trips, certain errands, or particularly inclement weather. Otherwise, these cats rode bicycles everywhere throughout the greater metroplex. Even and especially around the historical district, where I used to live, up Capitol Hill, and within the monoliths of downtown.
With it being summer, and my riding my bicycle more, I have found myself opting to pretty well park my vehicle for the season. There are, of course, exceptions to this resolution, but, by and large, I have never minded not driving. The details observed when moving at people speed are often missed when driving.
I have never considered myself athletic in any sense of the word. Being an aberration, my movements can be awkward, if not just outright queer. The si lai nan jen who so got their rocks off by bullying and brutalizing me growing up were most often of the jocks, thus fueling a hatred toward that social caste. Yet, both Sabina and sempi have in recent memory referred to me as athletic by virtue of my constantly going on walkabouts and the riding of my bicycle with almost child-like glee. I am not sure how to approach the subject. Those feelings I have toward the concept of labels, after all.
Those cats who would only drive when absolutely necessary and the historical district have entered a bit into the mathematics of my thoughts as of late. Perhaps because this little bit of Byzantium, hearkening back to halcyon days of the mining antiquity, along the far-western edge of our Sahel has a similar sense of funk to it, and you've got to have the funk. Well, at the very least, the history, which was part of what drew me here. Maybe it's the bicycle rides and walks down the dusty streets Sabina and I will take sometimes after dinner, the deepest blue of evening, when we catch bats and swallows dancing on the cool breezes in their search for prey.
I wonder if it's a dysfunction reconnect come full circle. Sort of like coming to the mountains was a sort of homecoming; having grown up in rural places on a farm. Even though I live within the borders of a municipality, within spitting distance of downtown, if it can even be called such anymore, we have an urban-wildlife interface down below community planners either masturbate themselves to or nightmare about, depending on one's philosophical bent when it comes to living in concert with the rest of nature.
The other day, after Sabina accused me of being athletic, and I almost told her that was as baseless as her calling me contrary, I remarked perhaps I am rebuilding myself in some way. Shedding my metaphysical skin, see? Just but a few months from what has been referred to by the hip and swinging as the new twenty, maybe such a thing is not only possible, but probable.
Then again, are we not always in a state of becoming? All things grow and change and further evolve in a dynamic environment. That's the way of things. After all, stagnation is a slow death, which leads to extinction, and I have neither the time nor inclination to be party to an extinction event.