Week #17: Still Writing Week #16, And Other Fail Points

(Obviously written before I finished the previous posting. They're both done now, so out of order. I'm putting it up on 04/14/2014, but the "Publish" date is when it was originally written. I'll be caught up someday.) 

---

...with the throttle screwed on, there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right... and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are the wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it... howling through a turn to the right, then to the left, and down the long hill to Pacifica... letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge... The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others- the living- are those who pushed their luck as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

Hunter S. Thompson, 1966

Fucking right. Gonna get back on the road. It's been a long stretch, and I'm feeling old, time is sucking the marrow of my bones.

"I am time grown old," says the Bhagavad Gita, "Destroyer of worlds, and I have come to engage all men. Even if you do not fight, all the warriors facing you will die."

Time to renew. Time to find me a fucking peer group I can relate to for a few days.

It Ain't Camping On The Desert, But There Are
No Keyboards or Deadlines Here, Either

I'll finish #16 another day.