From the first moment I got in the bike, it was like be reunited with an old friend. We stepped right into place, like no time had passes at all. As much as I resist nostalgia, my bodybrain has recalled a swarm of buried memories, of my previous life atop this motorcycle:
Night rides in the Bronx, City Island, Verrazano Bridge. NYC on a motorcycle is a vivid and exhilarating experience. I rode through the blue ridge mountains in a thunderstorm. I saw a full moon reflected in the ocean on the Jersey Shore. I sat next to old Latino fishermen on the docks of Coney Island.
Dozens of these memories have been coming back to me. I used to park the bike inside my Bushwick loft and cruise around the streets in Henry Miller's Topic of Cancer, wondering if I could resurrect the man in my own writing. That was how I spent my twenties.
Last night I received the proof copy of The Turpike in the mail. Many of my experiences are superimposed over this wayward American road novel. There is still work to be done of course, I need to read through the proof, organize another local reading or two, write another press release etc... All sorts of things. Having this analogue book in my hands is a milestone. All these stories. The reunion with the motorcycle however begs the question. But has my life wrapped itself in a ribbon and settled into a dusty cupboard? As warm as these old memories feel, it is time to get back on the road. I would rather be an empty vessel, waiting to be filled, then a cup full to the brim that sloshes everywhere anytime you try to move it.
Old and new. Full and empty.
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