See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Apr 19
My friend Sue and I harvested 127 bicycles from an old man’s sheds and garage. He’d been collecting them for decades and apparently decided to retire this hobby/obsession. There were a few mountain bikes nad BMX’s but most were at least 25 years or older, cruisers, sting rays and triangle frames. Lot’s of parts too, forks, handlebars, fenders, chainguards and seats. It was fun digging through all this stuff but sort of horrible too.
First up we had to lay down planks so we didn’t have to trudge through all the mud and water from melting snow. The sheds were homemade and almost maze-like. The bikes were all atngled into each other and some were frozen in the ground which was covered with cat and squirrel crap. They stunk. Also the roofs were caving in and Sue sometimes had to use a bike or the top of her head to hold them up.
I refused to go inside the sheds and instead took on the job of wheeling or carrying the bikes across the plants, then loading them into the truck and trailer we had borrowed. I think it took us about four trips.
The old guy seemed suspicious and always oversaw the action with a big rusty axe hanging from his hand. He’d hack at ice with it once in awhile.
The goal of all this of course is not to take on the old dude’s madness but to work on them and sell them, as is, customized or for parts. Many of the frames are perfect for fixed gear fanatics. We may put together a crew of rentals also. Sue’s already sold a couple but won’t be open for business til May. She can be reached at , e-mail sue.bikeyard@gmail.com. I myself already have something in mind, but I ain’t telling anyone.
