The Bicycle Diaries - by David Byrne

Given to me, anonymously, by one who sees me as 1) a reader (I am, and insert Bill Hicks joke here) and 2) a bicycle commuter (I am, and while as a full time writer, my commute is generally from the coffee pot to the desk, I do, like other writers we know, work a few nights a week at a wine bar).

First off, this is not a bike book. Sure, he mentions it, but really this is a book about urban planning, and the overall issues that face cities from a modern growth standpoint.

He breaks the book up into sections that are basically condensations of some of his favorite (or most challenging) cities when seen from a bicycle.

These conclusions of mine are devised in my minds catacombs.
Cobwebs serve as a source to my slow revelations.
They help keep my thoughts stuck, imprisoned in time & therefore
I'm left, alone; every evening free of intimate relations.

Still, even though I grasp & comprehend my consequences,
I'm riddled w/ bitter envy; only whiskey numbs the hate.
I am contorted when faces tell stories of love and mystery.
If I had one shot for each 2 tears, I'd have an alcoholic ocean.

Every few minutes I'm crippled w/ insecurities & revelations.
Writers block? Oh how I pray for that sort of simpleness.
Back in my younger days; ignorant with my dues & errs,
back I go to when I was unable to decipher my ruthlessness.

Now, withered with mistakes & weighted with understanding
I struggle to speak, to breathe, to love or believe.
The days sun is the same as nights shade, I do say.
I see not what others do: or could that be vice versa?

One is sitting tall and straight on the edge of his side of the bench by the window.
The other is slouched and short, crumpled into the other side of the bench-far window.
As I sit at a ninety-degree angle looking out the far window, the tall, enthusiastic one says,
“Can I get a sip? Naw just playing. Crr cr cr cr.”
He laughs.
“Shit.”
I say.
“I was about to give you one to.”
And I pretended to hand him my coffee.
“I would have drank it too. Crrrr cr cr.”
The black dude laugh.
The sun is shining and it is a beautiful, fall day, crisp and clear.
The other day it was snowing and the other week it was raining and the other month it was raining-from now until march it will pretty much be gray.
“For real though.”
The enthusiastic one says,
“I love this day. I can see the sky and the sidewalk. We should cherish this day.”

Words are photographed like criminal mug shots;
categorized for evidence of my sadistic thoughts.
I tried to play a long to the song of joy and life
but I found I lacked any talent in the instrumental section.

Alone is where I became a phantom of ideas;
grotesque and bitter; making even tainted souls cringe.
Love's possibilities pile up with promises and structure
but end in shambles, like scrap metal.

I constantly find myself overwhelmed,
worse when i was a child and couldn't quite comprehend
the reasons for things I like, feeling lost in crowds.

If beauty could come in waves like sounds coming out
from a cd inside your old stero system;
then it'd be painfully clear, my dear:
I'm just not made of simple frequency.

Isolation often leaves one to perverse ideals;
Idolizing the bazaar, in ways of sick entertainment.
In digital words, my soul is a terybyte old
but filled with gigs of undefragged, useless information.

I guess about 13 or so the state got me and the shuffling started.
1st foster family, older black couple with 1 other girl. This was not going to work. My rapist was a black man, not to mention that leaving in the getto as a young white girl, not for me. I was still having nightmares and if I saw a black man the looked liked my rapist I freaked out. So run away again to the street, usually the closest trailer park...

THIS IS A STORY ABOUT BOB.
BOB AND A GUN.
IT DOESNT END PLEASANT FOR EITHER.

THE GUN RESTS COMFORTABLY IN BETWEEN BOBS FINGERS, AND HIS SWEATY PALM.

HE IS SILENT.

SWEAT DRIPS DOWN BOB'S FOREHEAD, AND QUIETLY DRIPS ONTO THE FLOORBOARDS.

THERE IS A KNOCK AT BOB'S FRONT DOOR.
"WHO IS IT?"

"ITS THE MAILMAN." REPLIES THE DOOR.

BOB GETS UP FROM HIS SEATED POSITION, AND ANSWERS THE DOOR.
KEEPING THE GUN HIDDEN BEHIND HIS BACK, BOB OPENS THE DOOR.

THE MAILMAN HANDS HIM HIS PAPERS. THE PAPERS PASS FROM THE MAILMAN'S HAND, TO BOBS.
THE MAILMAN TURNS, AND STARTS HIS DESCENT DOWN THE STAIRS.
"HAVE A NICE DAY, SIR."

"WAIT!"

THE MAILMAN TURNS TO FACE BOB.
"SIR?"

"I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU A JOKE."

"YA, OK."

"KNOCK, KNOCK..."
BOB TURNS HIS WRIST TO REVEAL THE SIDEARM.

QUITE SHAKEN, THE MAILMAN RESPONDS.
"WH-WHOS THERE?..."

"NOBODY. NOT ANYMORE."

BANG.

BANG.

THE GUN FALLS TO THE FLOOR, AND ONCE MORE, HE IS SILENT.

Im going to try to make this my new therapy...If youve seen the blogs on DEVILISHOBO site then your caught up. I woke this morning to check the accounts on the computer to my surprize my wonderful man was blogging about how Im in his life and what was happening. I busted out in tears, how dare he, what was the motive, was this a sick joke, I think I cried for an hour or two, regrouped and thought I would do the same about how I got to that point. Im a self made destroyer... I dont handle emotions very well and use drinking to push it as deep as it can. then need a hell lot more drinkin to keep it there. Im sober today and thats a plus. Im happy...He makes me happy, never judged and loved me at my worst and my best. To me we fit perfect. He analizes everything and our hard times last week have pissed him off. Im still crying about that.