“On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.” Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values
I think about the most obnoxious and self-indulgent thing a writer can do is talk about his writing. I don’t think what I am about to share falls into that “toilet of me.” Sometimes, I forget how I labored over getting started, putting a single word on the screen. It’s funny how the simplest things become painstakingly laborious, rolling into an impossible mountain to climb.
Eventually, it just got down to me and the screen. I am thinking right now what kind of analogy I can use to make my point. OK, I got it. It’s like you’re sitting by yourself in a very comfortable and familiar setting and all of a sudden, the phone rings. It’s you on the phone, wanting to know what you feel like talking about right then. Is there something on your mind that is looking for a voice? It’s so easy, you talk the way you always talk, absent even an ounce of self-consciousness.
Well, that’s what I decided to do and I wouldn’t dare call it a style, because it misses the point of just being who you are, whenever you find yourself in the front of the screen. I also think it is easy to numb to that sensibility if you do this thing too often. You can lose your voice so easily and I am talking about all of us.
This exact time, I felt like it was time to start over again, just in case I was getting too distant from my stories. I owe it all to my motorcycle, Flaming Lips. Last Saturday, deep in the throes of my weekly story, I discovered myself sitting on the bike, painted in the afternoon sun, doing my Dennis Hopper slouch.
I was so happy I was in the midst of writing a story, which really tethers my mind to the word directions ahead. I knew my next story after that had to about me and the motorcycle. Flaming Lips, sits in the garage, covered with a sheet, the way a horse would be at ease in its stall. However, they were both born to run and they couldn’t be more opposed to each other on every imaginable level, with one huge exception, the rider.
How many times have you seen a Western, with our hero, out there on the range, all by himself? The horse understands it all and patiently poses there, poised to punch ahead into an unexpected direction, where adventure awaits.
There I was, a totally unheroic character if ever there was one, cavalierly hunched over Flaming Lips, looking as if he knew all the answers. I have these, frozen fleeting moments on my bike and they come on completely by surprise.
In my Zen world, a big deal is made over enlightenment, which I think is grossly overrated, at least from my side of the unenlightened. How are you supposed to know you are in a place you have never been before? What are your reference points, your buoys? Is it a moment or a totally transformative experience? I have no fucken idea and how could I?
I am on my cushion every morning, in silence, absent any distractions from without. The motorcycle is exactly the opposite, because everything is going on all at once. I have no problem understanding my attraction to both, but I don’t give the bike enough credit. In spite of what the Zen pro’s say, your mind goes on holiday when you sit. It can do whatever it feels like doing and you quietly sit there, bearing witness to its travels, trying not to get in the way.
The moment you start your bike and sit upright, ready to roll ahead, is a time carrying a kind of presence that harmonizes perfectly with the voice of the cushion, at least my cushion. I purposely picked the name for this blog, because I was certain the motorcycle was going to make its presence felt throughout, whether by name or in spirit.
I really feel quite fortunate to have been afforded the opportunity to merge mind and body, whether sitting cross legged or straddling the motion machine. It’s funny how stillness and motion compliment each other, both a voyage into the magic of the moment.
Sometimes, I am just not sure whether it’s the cushion or Flaming Lips that speaks to me and who cares? The motorcycle connection was more of an accident than a calculation, unlike the whole Zen business, more like an unexpected gift.
I got my first bike when I was in my early twenties and I honestly have no idea why. I was living in the East Village in NYC in the late Sixties. Finally, I wasn’t living at home anymore and I actually got to think I was finally grown up. By day, I wore a suit and worked at NBC. By night, it was back to a world that was exploding right in my face. After a while, I gave up the bike and the dreams of possibility.
Years later, I awoke a pilgrim to possibility, living in the extraordinary, high desert country of northern NM. I don’t know why, but I got my second motorcycle, still unable to hear its message. I was closer to embracing the jewels of its singular moments, but still not quite there. Like it or not, life is a goddamn progression and when you are finally ready, it’s just there, waiting for you to catch up.
I had a very short check list of what I needed to accomplish upon my arrival here on Kauai. I had to have a tattoo, something I never would have ever thought about, until I started thinking about the ink of my new spiritual address. I had to have a kayak, because any self-respecting, make-believe Hawaiian had to have one. Both the tattoo and the kayak are for another time.
I don’t know why I thought I had to have a motorcycle again, because I was never at home, whether in NYC or NM, but I knew I wasn’t done yet. Truthfully, I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin, so why the hell would I feel any different on one of these machine? Finally, I felt like I was beginning to fit into myself, floating on this magical island.
I could no more explain to you what happens on the cushion, than I could while punching the throttle on Flaming Lips. What I do know for sure is that I feel privileged to have both in my life.