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High Strangeness about Bigfoot and UFOs | 2014 | Money Doesn't Buy Happiness


It is life, makes interest, makes importance... and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.  

-Henry James

Biking to Enlightenment

I am only a few days away from work and my mind has already begun to lose the concept of weekdays. I have number, a countdown to my wedding, but "Tuesday" is getting more slippery.

Without many solid deadlines, I have today. Today is fantastic. There is a storm that varied from torrents to trickles and back to lure more people out to soak. From the window of the tanning salon where Amber is getting her teeth whitened for the wedding, I watch the raindrops exploding up from the parking lot, frozen in flashes of lightning. The salon plays a constant stream of pop music videos. I recognize none, like fewer, but enjoy them as part of the experience of being in this moment.

This is what my brain needs, to choose its own hours, to sleep and wake when I wish to. Last night, Amber and I practiced our first dance dance in our backyard until midnight, until I was dripping with a mix of humidity and sweat.

I bike near daily, seven to ten mile jaunts around the hidden paths of my town. Initially, this was to be a bonding activity between Amber and me, but Amber has opted to garden while I bike. I had hoped to lose more weight before our wedding, but I instead have packed on muscle in an amphibean way, taut legs and floppy arms.

Later in the day, I pedal out of the garden when the rain resumes, not the light drizzle that might resolve to nothing more than a rainbow, but fat droplets whose only redeeming trait is that it is July and they are not freezing. I love every second of being drenched as I bike home.

Months ago during a checkup, my doctor asked if I me if I meditated. I answered immediately that I bike and this seemed to satisfy him. I have reached a strange plateau in my biking where I engage in conversations with myself. The first time, it was a dialog after forty-five minutes of pedaling as to the nature of human existence. It wasn't planned, but it did take fifteen minutes and it was aloud. (My assumption was that I was moving too fast for passersby to understand what I was gibbering about. Any who did would assume I was on a hidden BlueTooth. I also didn't care overly much.) My conclusion involved the perpetuation of memetic and genetic material, but I acknowledge it was more of the experience of thinking it and less it making any concrete sense.

In the rain, thoroughly drenched and still minutes from home, I can only laugh as the sensation overcomes me again. I thank the Divine for the sudden shower and rail against several people who have done me wrong, finally letting them go to accept further those who have never been less than supportive. We are given only so much time to spend each day and I want to be done spending it on people who overdraw my accounts and give no interest. I don't know why these monologues slip out while biking, if it is the solitude or the adrenaline rush, and I cannot predict when they will happen again.

This summer is practically guaranteed to be transformative. I am off to a good start and racing fast.

Soon in Xenology: The perils of poverty.

last watched: Room 237
reading: In the Mountain of Madness
listening: Mindy Gledhill

High Strangeness about Bigfoot and UFOs | 2014 | Money Doesn't Buy Happiness

Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. Double Dragon publishes four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, and Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings. He likes when you comment.

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