Author Archives: james

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About james

hoyden will follow the free tendencies of desire hoyden is a pill dropped in a glass of water hoyden is an illusion on a surface of memory hoyden is a finger resting on the controls of a broken machine hoyden turns as she pleases toward all horizons hoyden is perfect sadism, at least as a method hoyden is a beautiful chimera hoyden crouches to intercept shadows hoyden is not in the habit of saluting the dead hoyden will always find buyers hoyden is at most a thinking reed hoyden writes sad and ardent love letters hoyden is a door someone opened hoyden is a dark intention hoyden never waits for itself hoyden leaves an exquisite corpse

twilight

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Twilight is the in-between time when anything is possible. Mountains are silhouetted and their mysteries are shrouded in shadow. The sky is subtle in its muted and multi-hued beauty.

I am on a road bordered by Joshua trees, saguaro, brush, acacia trees, and desert wildlife. It unfolds in front of me into the yellows and pinks and blues. There is no bright sun glaring in my eyes, and night hasn’t yet enveloped me with only a bubble of highway lights and headlamp to ride into.

This time of night has a magical quality to it – an rift in the sky in which other paths, other possibilities are visible for those few moments before the color fades and darkness falls.

“… the moment of twilight … the crack in the universe between daylight and dark into a world not merely other than our own, but of an entirely different order of reality.” *

I ride through this moment of twilight and sometimes wonder if I’ve entered a different order of reality.

 

 

 

* Walter Goldschmidt, from the Foreword of The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge by Carlos Castaneda

photographs

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I found a box of old photos today from back when film was still used and digital had not yet become de rigueur.

There are photos of my dad and grandparents. It is nice to recall those memories, but sad at the same time. I miss all of them greatly.

I came across photos of old friends, childhood images, and vehicles once owned.

There are also a lot of photos of people who I know I was friends with once upon a time – we are having a fantastic time in the pictures, but I can’t for the life of me remember their names. Obviously, I wasn’t terribly close with them, but it is still a bit disturbing to have all these semi-blank chapters of my life left out of my memory. Well, I remember the events and the circumstances, but I look at the photos and think, “Who the hell were all those people?”

I suppose some of it is how my lifestyle has functioned. I have moved frequently over the years and with a nomadic life tends to come impermanent relationships. I have always had a philosophy that the people I am meant to be friends with and continue to know will continue in my life in some way. We will find ways to stay in touch over the years. If a relationship takes too much work to keep up or the friendship simply dissipates over time, it wasn’t meant continue.

Perhaps this could be viewed as a rather fatalistic way of interacting with relationships, but I’ve found that it is a rather functional outlook. People lose touch with each other. This is just what happens. Because of this knowledge, I rarely mourn a once-friendship that has gone by the wayside through lack of upkeep. I thought that my subscribing to Facebook would screw up that philosophy. I have reconnected with high school friends and acquaintances, and have caught up with various people from my past. However, what I have found is that the people with whom I actually have real friendships with – not just status updates and ‘likes’ – are people who I’ve had a connection with all these years anyway.

The people in the photos who I wonder who they were aren’t real friends or Facebook friends. I lost touch with them for a reason – we had little to tie us together.

Knowing that doesn’t change the odd feeling I get when looking at the pictures. If we had such a lack of connection, why did we hang out back then?

restless

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There is a melody in the exhaust note of a late night solitary motorcycle. It is joyous, melancholy and restless.

Lying awake in my bed after an evening ramble around town, I hear bikes zipping around in the night. Their song isn’t as sad as the lonely freight train, and it’s got a note of rebel in there, but there is a nomadic agitation the lingers.

Maybe it’s just me.

I’ve always had a desire to be on the road, satisfying an almost ever-present disquiet. In some ways it’s easier to be out there. It’s cut and dry. Drive, find a place to crash, shower, eat. No two days are the same. Even on an uneventful day, the terrain changes. The weather, the local’s accents, the food changes. There are adventures, there are calm days. But any problems tend to be very function related: car breaks down, money is short, took wrong exit. Uncomplicated.

I have a nomadic agitation that lingers.