The Prana

Prana is not the mind or the soul, but is rather the force or energy through which the soul manifests activity, and the mind manifests thought. It is the steam that runs the physical and mental machinery of life.

I stole away to Munson this afternoon to learn about the Prana.
Hambone met me at the trailhead- both of us somewhat frazzled from what feels like an accelerated life pace, as if when the arc of history bends towards justice the resulting parabola produces more friction, more power, more prana.

Wait. Maybe that is not the Prana at all. The Prana is thick in the forest apparently, I have that on good information. Does the Prana also exist in a cramped airplane seat by the shitter at 37,000 feet? Does the Prana exist equally in curious little boys and old and weary dogs?

All I know is it is thick in the forest.

Riding the last of the light down into the pine needles I was tempted to close my eyes and let the Prana take over. Propelled by a couple of yogi jockeys on my wheel I entered a transcendent state. I'm being serious here, which is hard after developing a carapace(hold on not carapace)instead let me say a bowsprit of cynicism because after all- I lead with it rather than lurk behind it.
As I said, I entered a transcendent state. Hands and feet humming, guttural breathing, absence of pain, hunger, or thirst. No longing. No what next.

The Prana (is that the Prana or what?)

Juancho

Evidence & Speculation

A series of unidentified flying objects was spotted in the San Diego county area last night by a number of witnesses. The exact number of witnesses remains unknown to the writer at this hour, hence the use of the descriptor "a number."

Cynical chiding ministrated by the Press and various Public officials evoked a twinge of sympathy for the number of witnesses, whether it be ten or 100. To personally view a rare thing and be ridiculed and doubted by the stoogie masses is unpleasant at best. Perhaps one happens to see an adolescent Black Panther at rest in a familiar urban trail- a breathtaking episode in one's personal history to be sure- only to be bargained down to accepting the tacit belief that a lesser creature; a much lesser creature- a jaguarundi in fact, may have been the creature in question? This is a sadness and an outrage.

To know that what passes for authority in such matters are those scientists who study the known world is perhaps most disappointing, for how can they be expected to pontificate regarding the unknown, which by their own admission lies well without their sphere of influence and understanding?

This is like Cinderella judging the beauty contest having only worn one gown.

I hereby renounce any implied or specific agreement that the creature in question was any other than a panther, fur black. I call on Hambone to support me in this cause.

-Juancho

The Funny

I went to the Doctor last night, for a two week check-up. The afternoon sun was crashing onshore through the longleaf pines as I pootled along behind the lorrie-like train of Pain Cave Tommy and his daughter, Pain Cave Jr. Just in case I felt bad I wanted a riding partner who could coax me along, but what do you know? I felt great. Rested might be the word.

Meanwhile, my friend in New York Mel (not his real name) sits bored in the cold and snowy hills of Westchester county gnashing his teeth and mashing re-dial over and over leaving me messages like this, while sipping Jameson's.

"Come on monkey, pick up the phone and entertain me monkey! Click. Ring. Pick up the phone and dance stupid monkey, dance!"

Spring is around the corner, but it might be too late for some people.

Juancho

The Pivot

After San Felasco life came with the crossover dribble and left me flat-footed- guarding an empty backcourt while the play moved downcourt.

You have to make the pivot.

I didn't just go to the bench, I left the stadium. I didn't just leave the stadium, I took a bus downtown and got a job as a hot dog vendor. I failed to make the pivot. When all of the priorities I had kept at bay came with the full court press I should have faked downcourt to the power forward, pulled up, and called a timeout.

Instead, I got stripped.

The convenient frame says, "Well, I accomplished a goal and it is only natural to take some time off and deal with life's business." Fug dat. I am much happier when I postpone, delay, and ignore those so-called important issues like career and family in favor of a maniacal obsession with the bike. The issues benefit as well.
I prefer the perspective of the warrior class. All things will be settled- as soon as I am back from the battlefield.

I have been running like- on my feet- in the absence of my bike the last two weeks. Feet are easier to pack. Near as I can tell 15 minutes of running equals 50 miles of vigorously steep singletrack. Seriously, do the math for yourself:

15x=50

See.

At any rate, and to return to my original metaphor, I am now ready to make the pivot. Down by double digits, but plenty of time left on the clock.

Swish,

Juancho

Satellite

I am keeping a helicopter view on the whole scene these days. I can see people moving around, they look like ants on the march- to Santos, to feed the chickens, to here. I can see the curvature of the Earth, and I can see around the corner into Summer 2009 a time long-remembered for the realization of great changes.

I woke a sleeping soldier in the Atlanta airport, I thought he was missing his flight. He mumbled he had just come from Iraq and he couldn't stay awake. A dark-skinned 25 year-old American vet torturously curled in a chair designed to not welcome or accomodate the sleeping. This summer I hope to see exhausted soldiers scattered across the floors of airports, empty Cinnabon boxes at their feet.

As I tack about the country I nurse a bite on my eye from an Arizona bedbug, far preferable to I-75 traffic, but less appealing than a carne asada taco from Reyberto's in Clairemont Mesa, CA. I want to ride my bike, but I can't let go of my sheets. If I do I know I will just float away.

Maybe tomorrow,

Juancho

Brake Time

If I spent the rest of 2009 sitting on the porch at Joe's and watching the ducks get it on this would go down as a productive year for me. Even without the trip to D.C. to join the hallelujah choir I have sustained a grueling pace of activity.

Because a body in motion tends to stay in motion I have to ease this life into the brakedown lane in order to not get run over by my own agenda. February isn't looking like a spa treatment either. World domination is harder than it looks.

If you start out too fast you blow up at the end.

Juancho

Special 38

After a long campaign of bunkers and trenches I polished my spats and hit the scene like Beyonce' this weekend- and that ain't code. A guest in town, you can't tell from that picture, but that's one of the fellas from back in the day. I met some deviled eggs I really hit it off with and even enjoyed an Old Fashioned around a backyard fire in a fresh dug hole. Although a little stressful- all those good-cheered friends chattering and not afraid of the future-- I flexed my missing limb of a joy muscle and scheduled a check-up with Dr. Munson.

The good doctor had only a small window in the schedule for a drop-in, just 38 minutes, so I was forced to be brief.

The edginess: Why always the edginess?

Hey S'quatch- tick tock, 38.

Juancho

Dr. Munson

A therapist friend recently told me I was crazy, and I don't doubt it one bit. If you aren't a little crazy then you just aren't participating in this funhouse maze of a society we have duct taped together. The incident in question involved a glass of ice and its supposed ill-effects on my health. This observation was poorly received by myself. In defense of ice, and cold beverages in general, I demanded evidence and furthermore railed against a culture that finds it acceptable to make passing observations about personal behavior without expectation of resistance. I think I referred to it as a "Drive-by Judging." This type of nonchalant superiority is best typified by the hack artist, Jack Johnson, the self-appointed life coach of the left-leaning, white, recreation class.

It doesn't take much to be labeled crazy anymore so you better watch your asses out there. I contend that cold water is in no way harmful, and if it is, my blue collar digestive system appreciates no such degree of nuance.

In order to get a second opinion I made an appointment with Dr. Munson last night. Dr. Munson was willing to see me at the very end of the day and our session began under a gathering darkness and chill.

We enjoyed a brisk debate in our 43 minute and 22 second session and the esteemed Doctor confirmed that while I indeed may be on the breaking side of slightly bent, it is you people that made me this way.

Juancho

Magic Numbers

Twenty-two, that's how cold it is outside this morning in Tallahassee, FL. Cold enough to get your attention, cold enough to think about moving the bed away from the window. I don't mind the cold this morning. I think it is kind of nice out there, and 22- the dos dos- is my magic number.

You got a magic number?

Juancho

Oil Change

I could use a soothing balm of some kind to ease my troubled spirit. As Jesus healed the lunatic so need I the healing. As it is with mania of all kind, I like the ride. I am trying to let it be enough, principled leadership- but I am concerned it will not satisfy me, that if I had my choice I would prefer retribution. I sigh and know this can't be, that it is unconstructive and feeds my baser self.

Do you ever get tired of the stiff upper lip? The other cheek? The high road?

A little tar and feather is sometimes in order to prove the case for justice in the world. I guess we will wait and see. I think a tax against those who brought us continued misery in 2004 is justified. That is only fair right? Aren't we taught to pay for our mistakes?

It is hard to keep my face turned toward the brighter day when debris from the storm is all around us.

At least in the saddle everything feels right with the world.

Despues la baracha viene la resaca.
juancho