May The Cycle Remain Bespoken
Just because you are magical does not mean you understand how anything works.
Feeling bright one morning, you overlook the fact that you are a Fool, and in a trickster of your own light, you hatch a brilliant plan.
Lower carbon emissions will make everyone feel green.
You stride off to your garage, with one driving ambition: you will convert your car to run on Kombucha.
What could possibly go wrong?
Having dismantled your engine, you learn something important about yourself — you have no idea how it all works.
You have another personal revelation:
Poor impulse control combined with vast ignorance makes the wheels fall off.
You squat in the dim garage looking at your dismantled delusion.
“Do you know that you are more than the sum of your parts?” You ask the scattered engine, as it gurgles in a puddle of oil.
No response. For all of its parts, your engine appears to have lost faith in synergy — or your ability to create any.
You sigh.
Nearby, a flagon of kombucha burps, self consciously.
“May your cycle remain bespoken,” says a voice from the dark.
Looking around, surprised to hear voices coming from outside your head.
You notice your unicycle wedged in the corner between the hot water cylinder and a stack of gardening tools.
It has grown a long beard of cobwebs since you last saw it, just before the holidays.
“Oh, hello,” you say, surprised. “Um, how were the holidays?”
“You do know that was six months ago?” comes the curt reply. It appears that your unicycle may be feeling neglected.
Trying to keep it light, you say, “What’s been keeping you busy?”
At the very same instant, you realize this is probably insensitive, given the cobwebs, the dark corner and the whole “six months” thing.
“Just meditating on the web of life” says your unicycle, dryly, and then, “How about you?”
A large spider at the center of the bike’s wheel gives you a wink. Your skin starts to crawl.
“I’ve been going through lots of weird cycles,” you reply, convulsively waving your arms around to check yourself for spiders.
At the very same instant you realize this is probably insensitive. Again.
You micro-groan as your cycle deflates a fraction.
This is precisely why you avoid having conversations with sentient beings.
While you yourself are quite sensitive, being sensitive seems to require a different skill set, which you don’t have. So it’s generally better sticking to conversations with yourself.
You sit in an oily silence.
You start to think, which is almost always painful.
Your day has not been going to plan. First, your driving ambition fell apart. Now all you have left is your mood cycle.
And. The. Silence.
“Wanna take a spin?” says the webbed spokesperson, surprising you out of your dismal spiral.
Leaping at the opportunity, you give the spidery spokes a shakedown and wipe off the long beard.
Enjoying the sudden attention, your cycle’s wheel begins to inflate.
“Do you believe that the squeaky wheel always gets the oil?” you say, also growing more inflated. “Well today is different!” you proclaim, sweeping your arms in the air…
“This may be the beginning of our revolution.”
Just because you live in an enchanted garden does not mean you are completely unhinged.
In the next scene, you freewheel out the garden, forgetting all the old wheels of misfortune lying in your wake.
Dashing out the gate, you ask Clinger and Cleaver — the guardians — to watch the garden while you’re out.
Clinger glances in a wistful ‘please don’t go’, while Cleaver heaves after you with a sigh of relief.
Getting ready to ride, you say, “I guess you must feel like a well-oiled machine.” — You’re still trying to master interpersonal empathy, with a unicycle.
“Let’s just ride, shall we,” comes the luke warm reply.
“Just keeping it wheel,” you quip, as the bike seat groans under the weight of your appalling puns.
You wobble. You teeter.
“You’re way off center,” says the wise cycle.
“I had a feeling that I might be,” you say lurching forward.
Just because you feel a bit shaky does not mean that you are unstable.
Regaining some balance, you ride for a bit, looking around the neighborhood.
But then, completely of the blue, you are struck by a frightening-jolt!
Your old childhood home has moved in down the street!
You fled that place decades ago, thousands of miles away. You thought you had out-run it.
But it keeps on following you, popping up, making random appearances. Taking up residence wherever you go. You hate it when that happens.
You can hear your old childhood demons inside, running through the hoarded-up rooms, chasing their empty echoes.
They are busy. Breaking. Everything.
For a moment you feel sorry for them, or it. Or you? Sometimes its difficult to tell the difference.
“This may be a good time to speed up our revolution,” whispers your wheel.
Surging off on a wave of panic, pumping adrenaline, you flee.
Frantically, up-cycling and recycling.
Head spinning to check behind you — is it following? No — thank god.
Gradually, fear recedes with your backward glances.
Pressing on your heels — the pedals unwind you.
Catching your breath, you gaze ahead, feeling the sun warm your back.
You see your shadow riding calmly in front of you. Casting its willowy silhouette across a ribbon of pavement.
You’re not afraid, just curious.
After all, you always ride with a shadow cycle, even when you don’t know its there.
Sometimes you wonder who actually makes the wheels turn.
You are still of two minds on this question.
Just because you ride a talking unicycle does not mean you know where you’re going.
You turn off the pavement and down a path lined with willows, running beside a creek.
“You know,” you sigh, “I am starting to find myself…”
“Could be promising,” comes the reply.
“No, let me finish. I am starting to find myself …exhausting!” lurching into a light spasm of wheel wobbling.
“Yes, I know,” sighs the entire life cycle.
Pausing your commotion, instilling some balance.
And then more kindly, to your scattered self:
“Do you know you are well equipped to break down and then put yourself back together again?”
“I guess I do,” you and your shadow reply.
As you ride, the wind pedals through leaves, wavering the still groves.
The river reflects a gray heron. You catch a glimpse of a coyote’s glance.
Shaking out your mispokens, weaving through the web, riding your quiet cycle.
Leaving all the broken, vicious cycles behind you.
Turning, you whisper, ‘This may be the beginning of our revolution.”