oh those heart-breaking moments of insecurity

fucking fancy-pants bastards

tonight i was riding home at 2am in an unforeseen rain storm, wearing nothing but shirt sleeves and rolled pants. going through an intersection [on the red, past traffic] i see a gaggle of 'bike punk' looking kids. fixed gear, funny pants, you get the picture. so, naturally i smile- yay, fellow bikers out for the early morning run in the rain. in response i receive scowls and sneers. WTF?? so what if i have a light on my bike, who gives a flying fuck if i have a derailer and a helmet. i'm out there in it; not driving, not supporting shitty companies, or what ever they're pissed off about. yeah, i'm wearing gap panties and i ate some cow meat for dinner, but they don't know that from passing me at an intersection. for all they know- i'm the most kick-ass messenger in all of baltimore and they're blowing me off 'cause i don't have the right biker chic. well, fuck them and their cute little pants. i'm not a messenger, not pretending to be. i'm a cook and a sailor [and a damn good one at that]. i ride because i love it and i don't need their acceptance into the 'fashion biker of the year club' to justify the joy that darting through the city on my two wheels gives me every time i set my sweet ass on the saddle.

taking it all in

sunrise

on the bow of the lady maryland, anchored in a river inlet on the chesapeake bay, watching my first proper east coast sunrise. in stereo all around me are the myriad bird calls unique to the hour of sunrise. the sky and it's liquid mirror begin to glow, warming steadily until the crimson orb of light presents itself over the tree line. now it rises so quickly i can watch its progress until it hits the mango hue of its color spectrum where it loses it's mystique and becomes that "damn sun that gets in your eyes." with the water's reflection there's two of them, equally stunning, equally potent. the bird song wanes as the spell is broken. i can now hear the traffic of a nearby roadway and it's time to start breakfast for the crew.


laundry

tonight there was a blizzard of cherry blossoms. they came at me fast and furious, stinging my face and my bare knees. the exposed gap of skin between a green and white polka dot skirt and brown rubber fisherman boots. as i walk through the storm of petals, people stare at me in my burgundy tweed blazer and hot pink arguyle socks. rich people at heavy tables trimmed with candles and silver, eye me as i forge through the wind outside their restaurant windows. "my, what daring style she has." they think, raising their wine glasses to hide their envy. i smile and stay my course. if only they knew- my reckless "sense of style" is simply the result of my desperate need to do laundry.