I am in an unusual writing situation. I recently wrote a piece and it feels finished, but I haven’t shared it yet. I am sitting down now with this secret that nobody else would really care about, but that’s okay. Writing is one of a comfortable number of addictions and it just seems like I have to keep at it. I wrote about this voice I have had within me, ever since my father died when I was nine, at least that is when I can say with some certainty. It has kept me company ever since. I have been secretly communicating with myself for as long as I can remember, but please don’t tell anyone.
I got on my bike, Flaming Lips, this Saturday afternoon. Get ready for this picture; I committed every single dress code sin of bike riding. I was wearing shorts and slippahs, with a T shirt under a black leather, seriously beat up vest, plus a backwards baseball cap and the ever present, darker than dark shades. I didn’t have much going on and took myself over to Nawiliwili Harbor, where I sat and had a cold Stella, plus a bag of over priced, over salted, cashews, which tasted too good to be legal.
Around two years ago, I had my friend, Steve, install external speakers on my handle bars. I know you will take what I am about to share as no big deal, but to me it is unimaginable. First of all, my speakers are not connected by any wires to the music source! Before i mount the flaming stallion, I punch “P” for Pandora on my Iphone, stashing it away in my sagging, vest pocket. The moment the machine comes to life, I am engulfed by music I love with all my heart. I happen to think this is a miracle of modern technology!
I sat for around an hour on a concrete barrier, shades in place and my cap brim hovering just above the bridge of my nose. There was a huge, cruise ship docked at the harbor. I looked at the rows and decks of boxes and it felt overwhelming to me, but I was parked at a distance, Flaming Lips over my shoulder, knowing my life was so far away from all that.
Well, i drained the Stella and would continue this line, but I’d be forced to redact some of what what follows and we simply cannot have any more fake news. I punched the “P” and started the bike. I always wait for the first tune and if I don’t want to start with it, I’ll keep punching until I get the right send off. Jackson Browne’s, The Pretender, was first up. The entire array of California Cool from Chet Baker through the Eagles and beyond is one of the great musical veins to mine. I instantly envision myself in a classic, red Mustang convertible, driving from northern New Mexico into southern Colorado on a perfect July morning. My left arm is draped over the door, right hand resting on top of the wheel, making up the words to Hotel California, which I never understood.
Let’s get back on the bike with Jackson Browne, because I’ve a story I want to tell. I was leaning into my ride on the Kipu Bypass, harmonizing very badly with Jackson and thought how incredibly lucky I was to have been gifted my life to this point. I know it is supposed to be bad luck to call attention to your good fortune, but the numbers are on my side.
I am 73 years old. I have all my hair and then some. I am trying really hard to keep my teeth. I do yoga most every day. I am a tragically, compulsive runner. I am perpetually auditioning to be a Jewish Buddha. I have a private life I keep that way. I am working because I want to and have to. I am an incredibly imperfect father, trying to be a perfect grandfather. I live on Kauai and would never dream of complaining about my life.
I am humbled by my good fortune, which I consider an accident. I continue to write my stories, because I am overwhelmed with gratitude for being so incredibly lucky.