Once I had a book, rather a book that had me,
It was Zen Guitar
the book affirmed that I was singing and playing my song, and so it was,
my life went on from place to place, mostly dark places, some not so dark, others had no color at all, they were a dream I can’t remember, nor do I wish to
I lost the book, I don’t remember when,
Zen says one doesn’t really lose a book, I just didn’t know where it was, God knew
the book and I were in very close proximity, not as we were in the beginning, but alas, the book was not lost, I was.
Many years past after I lost the book I didn’t loose, however I did lose that song. Now it is now, as it always is, and I have been singing a different song while not really singing at all.
The new song is wheels, breaks, seats, peddles, wind, hills, miles, adventures, with groups but mostly solo, thereby the name Solorider became me. I didn’t choose that name, it chose me. I have been Solorider for quite a few years now but what, after all is time. In riding there was/is no time until the pain and the glance at the computer on my bike where I would see ‘time’, and pain became a barrier, a warning, a limit. Damn, a limit, I can go no more,—or can I?
Two songs, one over, one hitting a limit. What did the fish said when it hit the wall—DAM!
Earlier I was eating my salad, or about to, when I realized I had nothing to read. I am a reader/eater. To enjoy eating I like to read, a book, a story, about characters. I had finished my last book just before Christmas and went to the library to find another eating/reading book. The library was not open, so so be it. Holidays. Christmas time upsets many norms so I sang or hmmmmmm’d a different tune.
Today my spouse is back to work. Holy Holidays are over. I am home alone with yoga for 35 min, 60mins on indoor bike trainer (is YUK acceptable in loose literature) because there is a 23mph wind outside @17º and I am 69. I have done my body work, I have a salad, I have no book, a book is a must.
There is always a book.
Up! Up to my smelly bedroom where my bike cloths dominate the olfactory. In my closet there is a box with ‘stuff’, DVD’s of the Three Stooges, (no I don’t watch the screen any more—or FaceBook, now there is a book I really don’t read). In this box there are bike parts, good parts but of no use to me because I am always in the act of modification and upgrades, still, I do not throw anything away—I do not throw anything away except for redundant sentences
It is in the wind. There is a new song seeking me, I know this— that song of which I do not as of yet know I know has been seeking me for a while, for I have been seeking it as well. Googling motivation was a joke, but not the act of Googling Motivation. That was doing. I believe the seed of a new song, the thinking of a new song, the taking my guitar out of the case in the office and bringing it up to the front room with the new big window that looks out on my neighborhood was the cry, the soul cry, the first chord, the beginning of the new song—there in the dusty box with Moe Larry and Curly was Zen Guitar—the BOOK.
Zen Guitar—an affirmation—a reclamation, a possible reconciliation with abandonment and adultery of sorts.
Looking into my Macintosh (do they still call this thing a Macintosh, No its a MacBook Pro, early 2011—that’s significant)
Ah! The Notes app—something I wrote November 27th, 2016:
I don’t hear the music anymore
I don’t know the words anymore—where have they gone.
There is a cacophony of noise in my brain.
The ruminating rattle of insignificant junk made by one someone who has built a wall, a moat, a mountain so early in the day as an attempt to
hem me in
impede my growth–
stifle my progress,
hold me down
hold me back
It is the battle of the wolves–
The good wolf and the evil wolf.
Which one will win father?
The one you feed son.
Siddhartha’s River! Enlightenment!
I picked up the lovely dusty smelling book nicely aged and browned. Somewhat like bumping into my long-lost lover, what was her name? And out of her, the book, dropped to the floor a piece of cardboard. Picking up the cardboard I saw my sloppy hand writings note, to —whom? myself? when? for what reason?
You are who you are
and you will be who you will be
and none of that is really up to me,
it is all up to you.
Weird, or maybe not.
I began to thumb through the book, forgetting my salad waiting on the kitchen table bathed in lovely cold pressed olive oil and blessed with Apple Cider Vinegar and adorned with fresh basil while I was looking only at the fallen card and thumbing through the book, until, at last I stopped on page 18 where the following words were underlined by me at sometime:
To be obsessed with the destination is to remove the focus from where you are. The only way to progress in Zen is to put everything into this step, right now!
So it begins.
The song I sang for so long suddenly ended, a new song begins. Is there an underlying longing for something new peppered with the anxiety that all songs must come to and end and this ride of Solorider just might be in the last 16 measures where the chorus repeats and repeats and repeats to fade out?
Yes. I say yes. That is why a far-fetched scheme via text call from S, a friend, has had me looking not for what I wanted, but what wanted me.
Zen Guitar wanted me. The book, but maybe more. Never an end, only new beginnings.
A wonderful salad with lovely seasonings and comfort while sharing my meal with the once lost now found friend—Zen Guitar