glava - not famous

She knows it is coming. She's known it for the last fifteen minutes, but she's still holding her attention firm. She promised herself it would not happen this evening, not in this crowd. She had been looking forward to the night out all week, and this restaurant truly deserves all the reviews it gets. The balcony of the restaurant has a view of the city, and the summer evening rewards them with a gentle breeze. Her companions are polite and gentle, and a well-dressed gang. They are discussing something really important when she starts to nod off, their voices becoming distant echoes.

She can't fight the urge; it has won, so she simply lets go. Her soul would take a form on her own, lower her head, touch the edge of the table with her forehead, and just stand there. This wouldn't affect the conversation at all, because nobody would notice. The body is the old trickster - can stay upright for hours, and it knows when to blink, when to laugh, and even when to say: "Wow, that is amazing". But her soul is just not capable of that; she would always rest on the table edge, waiting for evening to come to an end. She would follow when the body left the restaurant and wait until it hugged everyone and told each person how lovely a night she had and how she can't wait to meet them again. And only when everyone's footsteps were far away, and she was alone waiting for the tram to take her home, would the soul come back to her.

But now in the restaurant, the soul is not sleeping; that would be a blessing. Sometimes she, the soul, would count breaths, sometimes she would think about the last book she enjoyed, and sometimes she would just look at the feet. If she was in a good mood, the soul would even tell the body, "Hey, your feet are dancing under the table. Relax, or they'll figure out that we're not there."

The soul's favorite thing to do is imagine that one day she would learn Spanish and travel all the way from Mexico to Patagonia. She would take big buses, the ones locals use to travel the continent, eat spicy food she generally avoids, and chat with folks along the way.

Or that one day, in the middle of counting breaths, his soul arrives. "Hey," she would protest, "this is my spot!" But he would be unfazed, and would say something that would make her fall in love with him immediately: "Yeah, I noticed, but I can't be there anymore - so I thought I'd come here and ask you how your week was". In her daydreams, he always says something kind and never something like: "What's a soul like you doing in a dump like this?" He can't say that - just the fact that his soul noticed her would be a sign. Once she even dreamed that he came, held her hand, and said nothing while everyone else upstairs was talking about recent crises in a place they had only seen on the screen.

After an encounter like that - surely they would meet again - the soul now following body all the time. They would always hold hands, and she would know what to say so that he would feel stronger than he is, and he would know when to stop talking or make silly jokes that make her smile. She would meet his parents and try to observe which piece of him comes from dad and which comes from mom. They would eventually move in together. Her soul would be there when they offload the moving truck, when they buy furniture, when they arrange things. The soul would always be there when they wonder what to eat this evening, and when they argue over which restaurant to order from; and she would not blink an eye when he orders exactly the same thing over and over again.

And for her, the true testament of love would be that in the midst of him telling a story she has already heard a million times, she would be permitted to let her soul rest again on the edge of the table, and he would not get angry or insecure. He would just put his arm on her shoulder, and gently kiss her soul on the back of her neck.

Her feet are now moving more than usual. They are almost running under the table. Ah, the body is triggered by someone's harsh argument; the soul will have to go into a rage, and she will spend the rest of the night arguing. Her companions will go home thinking, "Wow, she is passionate about that topic." They will never know that she is just angry because they forced her to stop thinking about his hand on her shoulder.

---

Part of the Dreams and Fears series.

It was pitch dark, and he was walking through the park with a backpack, a tripod attached to it. Once he found a good place, he unloaded the camera from the backpack, put it on the tripod, checked the exposure, installed the mic, and once he made sure everything looked right, he hit record.

“Hi gang!” he shouted, exhilarated, to the thousands of viewers who would watch this once he edited and uploaded it.

“One of the questions I constantly get asked is how do you take a good shot of the moon in the city? What lens are you using, what camera, what are your settings?  And let me tell you, gang—you've got this all wrong, and today I am here to help you out.  To get a good photo of the moon, well, you need to have a good moon, like we have tonight!” 

He gestured grandly towards the sky, the camera shifting autofocus to the full moon looming over the park. He returned to the frame with two thumbs up.

“What a beauty tonight, gang! The moon gods have blessed us with an amazing, crisp, white full moon. Ugh, I am excited—mind me saying, I'm over the moon about shooting it tonight.

Okay, okay, but back to the checklist.

The second thing you need is a quiet area with as little light as possible. Your city park will suffice; if you live in the suburbs, don’t be afraid to drive a bit farther into the unknown. After you have found a place, the third most important thing is to observe the moon.”

He stepped out of the frame again, letting the lens autofocus on the lunar surface as he turned his face fully toward the sky for the first time that night. “You might think that the moon is...is...” his words turned into a whisper as the camera was rolling.

He looked at the moon and saw, for the first time, that the moon was looking back at him. His camera would later reveal that the moon held his gaze for exactly 12 minutes and 36 seconds. Once the staring was done, he just muttered:

“Okay. Good”. He shut down the camera, packed his bag, and left the park.

---

Part of the Dreams and Fears series.

I have a bike that I use for long rides. The one I use to escape the city and do rides from sunrise to sundown. After a ride, before going to the wall in the basement, no matter how tired I am, I would wipe it clean. Every 150 km, I would refresh the chain with a special formula of wax. To protect it from punctures, every 3 months I would fill tires with fluid that is made out of recycled carbon. At any moment, I am ready to remove the cassette, degrease it, service the disc brakes, take apart jockey wheels, and deep clean every nook and cranny. I find this both comforting and relaxing. Bike maintenance is my meditation.

But then there is also the other bike - the one I call the outside bike. The one I have been riding almost every other day since I bought it on the second-hand market from a burly handyman. The bike is always outside, in the sun, rain, or snow, chained in the apartment backyard. This bike doesn't travel far, but it does a lot. It is the bike I jump on when I need to cycle to pick up a parcel, or when I am rushing to pick my son from daycare. It waits patiently for me in front of cinemas or for days on end at train stations. This weekend I loaded this bike with three bags filled with groceries, and it just wobbled for a sec until I found my place on the seat.

The burly handyman had another bike up for sale, but once I was at his place, he decided to sell this one. He told me, "My problem is when I see a bike I like, I have to buy it," and then he turned on the light in his garage where at least two dozen bikes of the same size were standing. There were a couple of road bikes, a time-trial bike, a few MTBs, and at least three city bikes. My outside bike was leaning against the wall, covered with cheesy stickers."This is the bike when I go out on dates," he introduced it to me, "but it turns out the girls I like don't like the bikes I like." He agreed to sell it on the condition that I not remove the stickers. I kept my promise, and the stickers of smiling death and banana are still there.

In the last six years, I've rarely oiled its chain, and I spent more time installing the basket on it than any other work. And the bike still moves effortlessly. The bulky gearbox, compared to the fancy one on my other bike, is built like a tank, but it rarely skips the gears. Riding with a set of touring MTB tires, the whole bike is stable and silent.

After six years, I surprised it this weekend with a new pair of disc pads and rotors. For the last few weeks, the brakes have been making high-pitched screeches every time I use them - a clear signal that the service is overdue. After a quick service, I parked it outside, locked it, and was in awe of the simplicity it brings to my life.

When I ride long distances, I meticulously plan the calories I'll take in, my hydration strategy, and where I'll stop to rest. With an outside bike, I just jump on it and pedal. The best way I can explain it is: I love long-distance and everything that comes with it, but I find joy in less convoluted cycling.

Maybe this is an ode to cycling, and a testament that cycling can be so many things. Or maybe this is how I just like to operate - do something really hard and offset it with something really simple.

Or maybe this is what I want this blog to be for me - just an outside bike.