Saturday September 20, 2009 – The Awakening

[snoof]

I think I’m back. Or at least I hope so. My wife certainly hopes so. Those I work and otherwise interact with didn’t seem to notice the changes, but after almost 24 years of marriage my wife knew something was off. I know she did because I saw the involuntary commitment paperwork near her computer awaiting only the signature of the judge that she knows from church. He’s in that system and I think he’s got the hots for her. Legally I don’t believe I posed any threats or danger to myself or others, but this is Texas. Who one knows often trumps truth and individual rights. But just like my getting sober not a day too early twenty-one years ago, thereby preventing this fine woman from throwing my arse out, I seem to have dodged another bullet. She says I’m back and that’s good enough for her to refrain from forcing me to fly the cuckoo’s nest.

I’m rapidly beginning to understand where I’ve been and how I got there, but I still have many questions and much confusion. It’s hard to explain and as I said I’m just now putting together the pieces of this strange and curious puzzle that has been my life since the Eighteenth Day of July, 2009, the year of our Lord. It took the supernatural work of the good Father McCracken, the Grass Goddess, and many miles of the good Road King’s rumble and ride to put this Humpty-Dumpty back together again.

The clearing, healing change began with the Harley whisking me from:

Home to San Marcos to New Braunfels to Boerne to Bandera to Tarpley to Leakey to Camp Wood to Barksdale up to 41 via Sister 335 to Mountain Home to Harper to Fredericksburg to Johnson City to Dripping Springs to Home again. 421 miles to this different kind of recovery.

Before I present what happened on the journey, I’ll try to explain where I’ve been. I apologize if there is incoherence and incongruence. I have been somewhat zombie-like. In and out of true consciousness and clarity. There are aspects of the past two month that are not unlike the twilight anesthesia that the Butt Doc gave me so I wouldn’t protest or remember all of the stainless steel that he rammed up the old Hinder for the colonoscopy. There are similarities to the blackout drinking I did in my alky days. With a gut full of booze I would carry on a reasonable conversation, sometimes without anyone knowing I’d even been drinking. But I would remember none of it later.

That’s kind of how I’ve been operating since that fateful day in July, with one big difference. The drinking and anesthesia memories never did stick; they’re gone for good. Memory is returning for the events of the prior two months. At least that which I choose to remember. Mostly I want to remember the rides I’ve made on RK. I know I’ve been riding because of the miles on the odometer and the invoice for the 35,000 miles servicing that I had done three weeks ago at the dealer.

I also recognize now that I’ve broke on through to the other side that in addition to my mind and memory, all of my sensations and emotions have been muted. Things have not smelled like they again do. My skin could not feel the warm and hot and cold. Although Father Time has stricken my sight and hearing anyway, those senses were ratcheted down to near nothing during the attack on me. Joy has been dull, as have all other feelings that typically create passion. Even the emotions I prefer to avoid were nothing.

Work, responsibilities and stuff like that I don’t think I’ll spend much time remembering. I’ve still got some money in the bank, I’m not being hounded by bill collectors, my clients, or paternity attorneys so I think I’ve probably been reasonably responsible. Actually my wife said that I told her that I’ve been told that I’ve been doing some of my best work. Go figure.

I just don’t remember. What’s most upsetting is that I just finished my second year together with RK. I had intended to have two years of journals pulled together by now. Maybe lash them into a book or something. There’s no documentation of the great times the fine motorcycle and I had to have had since July 18. Even worse, until my memory started to return today, I didn’t remember the great times. I know I had them, because to ride the bike is to have them. Which brings up another if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest-but-nobody-hears-it-does-it-make-a-sound philosophical pondering: If I don’t remember the great experiences on RK, did I really have them? Or are they diminished, nay, negated because the memory didn’t stick?

Moot point, because the remembrances are crashing back into my head. I just need to filter and process them.

I owe my friends in the chat groups an apology because from a cursory review, I’ve been completely off the radar and out of touch. The damn computer that I use at home for staying alive and connected with these fine humans has hardly been on which is very strange (and one of my wife’s tip-offs that a major part of me went AWOL). I just found some emails from some concerned citizens. Thank you for caring. I vaguely recall making a posting or two but probably not as many as a handful.

There have been no written entries of the bike trips, but a few photos were taken. As I review them, along with my reemerging brain I should be able to reconstruct the rides, which I shall do as I can, as soon as I can.

So in a nutshell, I’ve been blowing in the wind with no direction or recollection. I’ve obviously been living life on autopilot with little self-determination. A thick layer of cellophane has separated me from the world. But forces of good, far greater and more powerful than myself, have kept me from stumbling into the abyss. And have brought me back. Amen.

But I am now becoming royally pissed because I am recalling the day, the incidents, and the evil forces that plunged me into this hell-hole for half of July, all of August, and half of September. The bastards will have stolen almost 20% of my 2009 and that is wrong. A month is precious at this stage of my life. Hell, a day is precious. They shall pay. I don’t know how or who I will need to enlist for my side in this war, but they will pay.

[snoof]

I will describe how they stealthily, cunningly, and malevolently captured my mind and soul in another writing. But today I must write of how I was returned and resurrected, foiling their wicked plans.

As I write, today’s ride was actually another wondrous one. I just didn’t know that during the first part of it when I was only trudging through life. Before the Awakening.

It was a beautiful day. My kind of day with many clouds and gray skies. Temperatures in the low 80’s when I left. I actually got a few drops of rain outside of New Braunfels where I stopped to enjoy an invigorating and tasty Diet Coke (which I couldn’t fully appreciate at the time). I walked into the Gruene Harley dealership without any enthusiasm. I left and rode to Boerne where I stopped at an ATM because I had not remembered to get any cash. I usually would have been hooting and hollering into the cool, perfect day. But not this morning.

In Bandera I walked through a Cowboy clothing store for no reason and then wandered aimlessly on the main street of the usually enjoyable little burg. I saw a rugged looking, possibly authentic cowboy leading a juvenile buffalo around on a leash. This in itself should have filled me with life. That he would walk the bison behind parked cars put his mouth over the beast’s snotty, flaring nostrils and exhale forcing the creature to drop huge plops of corn-encrusted buffalo shit should have made me piss my pants. That the big, gruff cowboy would then squeal like a high-pitched, giddy school girl should have sent me over the top. But I didn’t even chortle or take a picture. I now regret that.

Growing bored with Bandera I headed to the higher country, perhaps to ride one or two of the wonderful, hilly, curvy Three Sisters: Ranch Roads’ 335, 336, and 337. Instead of traversing through the apple capital of Medina, I turned onto FM 470 to venture through Tarpley. Perhaps the dinosaur tracks would inspire me. They didn’t.

But as RK effortlessly climbed one of the early in the ride hills I found my salvation. In an unmotivated manner I stopped at a wide paved spot to photograph some of the beautiful country. I snapped a few pictures and seeing good hiding spots in the woods decided to walk into them to urinate. I wasn’t sure if the bladder would hold out all the way to Leakey.

[snoof]

Fairly deep in the woods with dick firmly in hand releasing a clear, healthy stream I heard the knocking of what I at first thought to be a woodpecker. Searching for the bird I caught a glimmer of movement behind me. I hoped I hadn’t entered into some kind of a Deliverance situation.

When I turned to head back uphill to my bike, my path was blocked by a short and stout familiar-looking Monk and a mostly naked, gorgeous and willowy redhead. Her long, beautiful, dark, red hair flowed in ringlets well past her bosom in the front and to the small of her back. Those breasts were barely covered by green grass. Her honey spot was covered only by the red public hair which matched; in color, that on her head. She was barefooted. Had I been the real Snoof I would have been smitten. Instead I showed as much lukewarm interest in the Monk as I did her. Shameful.

The Monk, I remembered after he saved me was not actually a Monk but the kindly and holy Father McCracken, who I had met in 2000 in Scotland. His real name is Father Peter or Henry Keegans, but I dubbed him Father McCracken after his belt broke and his pants fell to the floor during the wedding ceremony he was performing in the Rosslyn Chapel. Fortunately his robes covered his misfortune from the congregation in the small church, but I thought that the good priest was having a heart attack because he broke into a red faced sweat from embarrassment. He fumbled his lines, calling the bride and groom the wrong names. I hope the marriage took anyway.

The good Father was in his cups heavy that night and enlightened me on the history of the Chapel and it’s true part in the Knights Templar, Ark of the Covenant business that was inaccurately reflected in the DaVinci Code, both book and movie. The Father was a jovial old fellow, much like how I think the real Santa Claus is.

I also learned that Father McCracken had taken on a tremendous amount of flak and even had his life threatened for his refusal to unite a sheep and a man in the Holy Sacrament of Matrimony. The sheep was the famous Dolly who had been cloned up the road at the Roslin Institute in Edinburgh. One of the financial backers of the creation process had fallen madly in love with Dolly. Being a significant contributor to many of the churches in the area, the bully insisted that Father McCracken marry him and the sheep. When Father McCracken, under orders from the Vatican – from the Pope himself - refused to perform the ceremony because of the church’s stance on stem cell research all hell broke loose. But he persevered.

In the long run it was for the best. The wealthy guy would have been heartbroken as Dolly lived only six and a half years. But that didn’t stop the man from nearly wrecking the priest’s life.

After the wedding festivities, me, the drunken priest, and Abby the nun and his right hand assistant stayed the night in the ancient cemetery behind the church interacting with the many ghosts and spirits that regularly visited the living. At daylight Abby cooked up a wonderful breakfast of haggis, eggs and fresh breads. It was one of the best meals I’ve had. I almost left the States to live in Edinburgh I felt such a strong kinship in the area.

But on this day in the Hill Country Father McCracken was all business. I asked him why he was here, how he had found me. “I am with you always, My Son” he replied. “You have been tampered with by dark and dangerous forces that you cannot understand. You must follow my instructions precisely if you are to survive this ordeal.”

He barked orders at his beautiful helper, Lorelei whom he had brought over from Scotland. He had her remove the grass from her breasts, which should have made me crazy, but didn’t. Adding other vegetation to it, he fashioned a large bowl-like contraption.

I was told to remove my clothes, riding boots and all and lie flat on my back. My chest was straddled by the now completely naked Lorelei who sat on me. The hair between her legs tickled my chest. She then thrust her left (“It must be the left” Father McCracken had declared”) boob into my mouth forcing me to breath through my nose. Father McCracken then lit some herbs he had brought from the old country, set them on the ground on either side of my head, and covered me and part of Lorelei with the grass bowl.

My lungs filled with the smoke of the sweet smelling substance while I suckled the beautiful woman’s breast. Time stopped. I entered a trance-like state that was gentle and peaceful. And then my senses, my mind, my memory, and my soul returned. Snoof was back. And better than ever.

I began feeling quite amorous, if you know what I mean. After all I had a beautiful naked woman on top of me. But the good Father poured half a canteen of cold water on Mr. Magoo and I returned to the here and now.

I thanked Father McCracken for bringing me back while Lorelei skittered off into the woods, never to be seen by me again.

“Snoof” he said, “your elation at being returned to the land of the living will give way to anger and resentment. Perhaps even rage. Do not let it blind you. Your need for revenge could lead to your demise. Consider this counsel.”

And I will. But I still want the evil bastards that put me through this nightmare.

We bid our farewells and the holy man disappeared again into the woods from whence he came. I need to get back to Scotland to look him up.

[snoof]

I trekked back up to RK. I was back. Memory was still fuzzy but I was getting there. I have to admit though that when I took a gander at myself in the mirrors of the bike I was a little surprised. I had lost some weight, which is a good thing. The Snoof was getting chunky. I just wished I knew how I’d lost the weight. I’m sure I will.

My hair had also been cut. No more ponytail. It was not quite, but almost the hair of my Certified Public Accounting days. I wondered what went into that decision. Not much I bet.

But overall I was pretty intact.

And the ride became great. The RK never handled better through the curves and hills. Though not enough to fill the creeks and rivers, the recent rains had greened things up a bit. And in the cooler air I felt the beauty of the upcoming autumn. Although it was subtle, fall was in the air. I couldn’t wait. I was again alive.

The rumble of the bike shook loose the memories. But not so much that I didn’t truly get and stay in the moment. Up 337 to Leakey was great as usual. I even stopped at the rest area that the group I rode with last fall did. I replayed memories of that wonderful day in my now functioning head. I anticipated the upcoming Hill Country Ride with these same fine folks next month.

I pulled into the Hog Pen in Leakey and bought my wife and son T-shirts, so grateful was I. I needed to share that sense of hope and joy. I could have gotten high on the gasoline I pumped into my tank I was so into all physical sensations. But I didn’t. I got seriously into my Diet Coke though.

Onward to Camp Wood where we had the Catsup Wars last year and up and on Sister 335. I saw the camels and more deer and other exotic animas than I have ever seen in a single trip. Or maybe I was just in tune with the universe again. I even stopped to talk with a troop of kangaroos. So at peace was I that I was able to keep them from punching one another out like they are so want to do.

Completing the wonderful twisties up and down 335 I came to Highway 41. 85 mph seemed to be what we needed to do. And we did seamlessly and perfectly. Vehicles I came upon courteously pulled over on the shoulder to allow me to pass. I saw not a single idiot one all the way back to Austin.

Three times Department of Public Safety patrolmen shot radar and three times I instinctively slowed avoiding any problems. I was at one with all. I know it won’t last that way, but I certainly enjoyed it. Especially given the dearth of life I’ve been experiencing. Thank you Father McCracken, Lorelei and RK.

And as I relaxed after exiting the Interstate, on my way to Harper and Fredericksburg, not to mention all the way home, my mind was flooded with the rides that I had actually taken since the disaster.

I pieced together that I had traveled to the following, in reverse chronological order:

September 12 – I didn’t ride last weekend. It was raining.
September 5 – Fredericksburg
August 29 – I didn’t ride because I was in Atlanta for a conference.
August 22 – I rode RK to see my parents and rode on to Schulenburg
August 15 – To Gruene, the River Road and Canyon Lake
August 8 – Ellinger, Carmine, Dime Box
August 1 – I rode to pick up magical scents in Lampasas
July 25 – Another ride to Bandera. Perhaps that explains the strong feelings of dejavu I felt again today.
And finally that horrible July 18 – It involved a ride to Smithville and Bastrop, more woods. Weirdness and evil.

I had to slow my head down. But I will flesh out greater details of these trips. Especially July 18. I must.

It’s good to be back.

[MLC]

good to see you back on the forum snoof.