Remains

I heard on the news that the port of Seattle is calling on the public to submit new names for a handful of Duwamish river parks.

That’s cool, but it’s too bad that Jack Perry Memorial Park is not one of them.  I would submit that its name ought to be officially changed to “Bread War Park” in honor of the time Joeball almost lost an eye after being clocked in his peeper by a ciabatta roll. 

Last night, there weren’t such dangerous shenanigans afoot despite the presence of a hazy full moon, the first of two this month, impressive in its full glory, albeit probably not as special as the bloody blue one coming up on Halloween.  Nevertheless, a good time was had by all, as we sat aside our city’s industrial core and reminisced and reflected upon global capitalism and its mighty tools.

It’s hard to believe that is was just—or maybe only—11 years ago when, of a summer day, the charming Bicycle Belles performed in this selfsame spot.

Time passes slowly for, and along, the river; images of yesteryear dance again in our heads and the moonlight.

I was reminded again, in conversation, how fragile life is and how fortunate we are to be able to do whatever we do and so, we embrace all the risks in spite of themselves.  You thank your lucky stars that you can thank your lucky stars and pay respect to whatever gods or goddesses help you through the night (and day), especially out on two wheels in the naked city.

Getting older’s not so bad, in fact, it’s pretty swell when it includes the chance to reach across the decades and feel younger than you were way back when.

Every minute you spend riding your bike adds a minute to your life; as long as you keep pedaling, you need never go gently (or not so) into that good old night.