It's always easier not to be writing than to be writing, and at least by not writing one is keeping alive the option of at some point writing again. But, as soon as one is doing absolutely nothing, the intolerability strikes one as being not so much a freedom as a prison, walled on every side by limitless possibility....It's been weird here.
The little motorcycle, symbol of freedom etc., ran away, or was rolled down the hill, or took itself to church and never came back, or something, while I was out of town, and I felt so strange without it that I've been more or less paralyzed these past two weeks. That's one theory. I might also have Mexican pig flu, or something even worse that we haven't yet read about in the news. Probably it's just allergies. (I live in a park now, beneath a volcano, in case you didn't know, and every living thing in this park is bent on spewing horrible sneeze pods all day long.)
In any case, our worries are over: the missing bike has been found. A friendly neighborhood policeman called me this morning and reported having found it tucked in behind a giant bus in a church parking lot about ten blocks from my house (and right next door to Jack's...hmm!). It hadn't even been too badly thrashed - looked like someone tried to hotwire it through the headlight, failed, gave up and walked away. Or, possibly our troubles go deeper, and the motorcycle was seeking the kind of comfort and redemption one can only find in the Parking Lot of the Lord. All I know is that when I went to collect the bike it was surrounded by kindly church ladies making sweet cooing noises. They waved and waved as I rolled it away.
I doubt I'll ever know just what the poor Hawk went through during its time with Jesus. I only hope it found some answers.
Anyway, that's my excuse for not having written here lately. It's not that I don't love you all, especially you, Karl. I've just been sad. But now it's all better! Stay alert; news is on the way.