transitional gestures

We suffer through the inconveniences and unpleasantness of winter, long winter, here for those pearly days before and after summer's swelter kicks in, with humidity befitting a southern state, mosquitoes befitting a swampy state, and tornadoes from Kansas. My three-day swing was exemplary. Annie and I caught a matinee, Source Code, which was enjoyable and interesting; I later watched Love & Other Drugs, on a mini-Jake Gylenhaal kick. Those eyebrows--so disconcerting. But that one was good, too. Read (another) depressing article about the stupid cynicism that drives Hollywood: basically, white men make movies and they don't want to watch, nor support, movies in which they're not the epicenter. This particular article was about the travails of women in film: smart women, funny women, real women. Three-card-monte rigged marketplace. Same song for films for non-whites. Something was on at work the other day, with Dana Owens/Latifah, and it was so piss-poor in the writing department, it hurt my head. And the execs will point to its dismal box office as 'proof' that (white) people don't want to see these movies. Bleah.

So I got my cinematic swerve on. Got three good days riding in, too. 40+, 60+, 30+: not bad miles for me. I'd aimed for Stillwater the second day but the Gateway turned to ice/snow field and, after a fall and several slide-outs, plus lugging bike increasing yards, I bailed--and then ate it HARD on the penultimate patch of recrossed ice. Hard like--gasping for air, shocked and minorly panicked: the instand reminder I wasn't near home, or near much at all. I'd been humoring myself after the first fall (where I bounced through some slush, lightly abraded my arm & knee, and soaked my sleeve) that, Hey, it's just slush. Falling won't be a hazard, just an inconvenience. I was deep in I LOVE BIKING reverie when whooooooosh, down I went. Bike hit hard; I hit harder. Cold sparks shot through my gut from my right hip. I had to pause to consider that I might have broken my fucking hip. Dumbshit.

Then I remounted, chastened, and biked in shame out of the emerald forest. I did keep riding and, while short of a century, put it over 60 for first time since last fall. Right side is bruised/tender/ouch-y over a 12" x five inch swath of haunch and love handle.

I rode yesterday to make sure the leg didn't get stiff. I felt really good, then, as I turned around, I realized I'd actually had the wind cutting across my back the whole time. Return trip was dispiriting. Until I got out of wind and life was good again.

I was pondering this as I rode: 'If god is unknowable.' Period, that's it; not follow-up clause. If god is god, there's nothing we can say or know about him, his preferences, his grand plan. If we can guess his intentions (and note how frequently his inferred intentions match well with those diviners...), then he is not god. By definition, that is true.

And why do people keep building towns on flood plains? And why, why are they surprised when every spring the river floods (again)?