My former business partner Dave and I have parted ways for the time being. That threw a major kink into things over the last couple of months, as I've struggled to find my way forward now that the plan is all shot to hell. With everything in disarray, I let too much slide, too much get away.
So I was laying in bed the other night, thinking to myself, "Self, you have lost your way. You are fucking this all up, wasting what little time you have on this earth on things that don't matter. What if you knew you were going to die in a year. What then?" and upon considering this, I decided that I would build some motorcycles, visit some friends, write a lot, and take a long road trip. Those are good things to do, things that have merit, and they would allow me to leave something behind, both physically and emotionally, before finally dissolving myself into the psychic landscape of this country. I could face my death at peace then. Content with my choice, I reclined into the sort of calm I'm rarely allowed of late. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, a pang hit. "Self, aren't those exactly the things you've been planning to do in the next year anyway? The things you've been fucking up so badly?" Yes they are. How could that be? They are simple and good, not complicated and bad, but I had been making them complicated and bad out of boredom and fear of failure and/or success. As a product of the bureaucratic mindset that I find so prevalent in the world today, I was seeking complication and delay to filibuster against whatever's next, rather than just running with it.
This, I reminded myself, was retarded (in the bad way). There should be none more of it. I will do those things, and then, since I likely won't die in a year, I will do them again. And then I went to sleep.
This being a new year, I suppose it's only conventional to write on about priorities and change and renewal and other such things. I had solid plans for the new year, and then I had a panic attack that shook my very being to the point that I no longer held any of them. I spent two hours in a cage thinking that every time I blinked my eyes, I was going to die. I never want to do that again. It took three days of rest just to get back to the point where I could perform the basic functions of a human being on my own. This call for change and renewal came in response to that, and is something other.
Black Star is about my deep and abiding love of motorcycles, of all that is so very right about them, and about the overwhelming need I have to share that with (or at times even inflict that upon) other people. It is not about busted trucks or cute shop girls or Chinese industrial giants or anything else. It is not about me or you or anyone else. It is not Bastards, not Terrorists, not RATs, not any other such thing. It is motorcycles, and it is all of us who are inflicted with this disease. Everything else is extraneous. Everything else is complication.
If you're reading this, you're welcome to share in the crazy.
