Fugit

photo by joeball

We are reminded by the perennial philosophies that all is ephemeral.

The wisdom traditions underlying Hinduism and Buddhism, for instance, tell us that all of nature—what the sages of the sacred texts known as the Vedas refer to as prakriti—is constantly in transition.  The Universe itself passes into existence in this form and then out again, before reforming once more, endlessly repeating for all eternity. 

What we take to be our self, say the Buddhists, is nothing more than a continually changing set of experiences; there is no essential, unchanging core to be found; our consciousness is a stream with no deep pool as its source we might say.

One finds this view in Western philosophy, too, going all the way back to the pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus, who famously contends that all is flux; that we can never step into the same river twice; there is no “there” there that’s always there.

Still, this is little consolation in the real world when an old familiar watering hole and gathering place shuffles off its mortal coil so to speak. 

Sure, nothing lasts forever (except embarrassing pictures and posts on the internetz), but it is a little sad to note the immanent demise of a comfortable go-to spot which—although far from perfect—has sufficed as a place to congregate, toss back a few, and gather sustenance for the late-night ride home.

Of course, it’s important to keep things in perspective, which is why riding once more (for only the second time this year by my count) to an abandoned road above our fair city’s industrial sanitation heart in order to raise a conflagration from freely available combustibles is recommended. 

No doubt the day will come when there’s nothing but aluminum cans and cardboard to ignite, but for now, at least, we can be made warm by what’s at hand.

It’s literally a figurative way of seeing it; the metaphor of fire is actually what it is.

Christastrophe

Our capitalist culture goes into overdrive during the holiday season trying to convince us that happiness is to be found through consumption; we’re told by our televisions, newspapers, and internets that we’d better go out and buy the newest and flashiest gizmo or gem if we have any hope of finding something akin to bliss in our lives.

But, of course, it’s much simpler than that.

All you really need to have all the joy you’ll ever need is just a bike, some booze, and a fire.

And, I should add: several dozen acquaintances, including long-lost and far-flung heroes still recovering from jet-lag and/or nuptials, mixing together at a thoroughly over-planned checkpoint-style bicycle race inviting participants to kiss one another, imbibe thoroughly disgusting holiday-themed libations, and puff away at cannabis or nicotine all while meandering through actual old-growth forest paths within shouting distance of the illuminated downtown of a major metropolitan area.

That’s all you need, but also, for good measure, grown men roped together by a stretched innertube pedaling away from each other on children’s bikes until one or both are yanked backwards—that never gets old, no matter how many times you laugh out loud at it.

And, I suppose, it doesn’t hurt to include a lovely two-wheeled spin on car-free paths on a late fall night warm and dry enough for just a little wool flannel.

Or, in addition: a clubhouse after-party with singing and dancing and toys and gifts—some of which are quite desirable and even fairly valuable—for everyone.

That’s all it takes, really, to have a shit-eating grin on your face for something like eight hours in a row; you don’t need to go to the mall on Black Friday or max out your credit cards to be overwhelmed with the holiday spirit; you just need the Christmas miracle that is simultaneously a disaster of the very best sort, a gift that keeps on giving no matter what it takes.

Backyard

When you discover that your favorite drunken bike gang has biked to and is now standing around a fire drinking at the only outdoor firepit with its very own chimney less than a mile from your home, resistance is futile. 

Even though you’ve just finished your last teaching day of the quarter—or, perhaps because you have—and even though you’ve just gotten home after the first holiday party of the season—or perhaps because you have—there’s really no question of remaining warm and dry inside your own four walls: you bundle back up, hop on your bike and essentially roll downhill all the way to where a couple dozen of your two-wheeled acquaintances have congregated to enjoy the spirit of the season—that spirit being, of course, brown liquor mixed into store-bought eggnog for all to enjoy.

It’s lovely to be welcomed by the assembled and to enjoy the toasty glow of the cheery blaze in the outdoor fireplace; voices rise every higher as the flames are stoked from below and above; somewhat surprisingly, none of the nearby homeowners comes out with a dog to investigate; perhaps it is an early Christmas miracle after all.

Eventually, though, even the charms of the great outdoors begin to pale (either that, or the beer starts to run out) and the assembled wend their way through wooded paths that, to my way of thinking, are plenty exotic enough at this time of night and in this state of mind even if they don’t require a full-on shredding of the gnar.

And before you know it, there you are, having avoided the obvious turn-off to your own abode and by taking a route as familiar as they come, at one of the more typical last stops of the evening, where several nights are capped to songs sung by melodious strangers and exuberant acquaintances.

Of course, all this could have been avoided if only the assembled had assembled farther away.

Sugarplum

photo by joeball

Even though I’m a half-century past the age when I actually believed in Santa Claus, I still felt like a kid on Christmas morning when Jolly Old St. Nick hoisted me into his arms as if I was nothing more than a piece of holiday wrapping paper and I lay suspended in and surrounded by the sheer joyfulness and naughty glamor that is Seattle’s very own Sugarplum Elves.

Who needs hot cocoa on a cold winter’s night when there’s bike riding, booze, and multi-part harmony to keep you warm?

There weren’t a lot of miles, but there sure were lots of smiles as we pedaled from a festive Westlake Center to an art opening at a bike shop in Pioneer Square and then just a tad farther south to a magical indoor Santa’s workshop complete with a video fireplace and holiday grog all around.

And Elves! 

Singing Sugarplum Elves!

You couldn’t have wiped the grin off my face with even the Grinch’s hairy backside.

It’s easy to forget, in our modern high-tech world of instant messaging and auto-tune, that there is really nothing more entertaining than a chorus of human voices, especially when those voices emanate from the most adorable of sources, all dressed up on red and green finery and performing so close that you can, after several heartwarming libations, find yourself “singing” and “dancing” right alongside them.

"Sobriety diminishes, discriminates, and says no; drunkenness expands, unites and says yes;” so wrote the philosopher William James in The Varieties of Religious Experience, and I’m sure he would have appreciated the divine nature of last evening’s entertainments, augmented, as they were by coffee-flavored Jello shots among other taste treats.

Faces aglow from a short ride in the bracing night air, we tumbled into the all-enveloping warmth, and then, eventually back out into a far less chilly evening.

Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling, too.  Come on, it's lovely weather for a bike ride together with you.