This is in response to two different challenges. One was to write a nine-line verse with this rhyme scheme: a b a c a d a b a, with c and d unrhymed.
The second was to address the notion of the Mandela Effect. I’m not sure if this qualifies, as it’s a non-narrative way to riff about some infamous (or ridiculous) notions, including conspiracies about 9/11, school shootings, the moon landings, and Elvis, but here it is.
In the days of yore, my two favorite morning activities (after coffee of course) were bike riding and writing. Each offered a safe space where the passing of time seemed to disappear. The rhythmic pace of the peddling and the quiet tap of the keyboard were all I needed to reach a zen-like state. For many years, they were the flip sides of my morning meditation routine.
I can still lose hours writing (although “lose” seems like the wrong word because it’s wonderful to be in that zone), but my biking experience has changed.
Two years ago, I crashed. And now, among other things, I’m full of titanium.
I still bike, but I’ve lost that ability to get lost in the moment. Instead, I’m a bit obsessed with scrutinizing every bump. And holding my breath. And bracing for possible impact. I feel trapped in that last second before the world comes crashing down.
(It’s remarkably similar to how I feel about the world in general. We’ve clearly gotten stuck in the worst timeline. Reagan’s repulsive Morning in America campaign escalated the Doomsday clock and we’re hurtling towards the end. The courts won’t save us. VOTE BLUE.)
But, I digress …
I feel trapped but I’m not. I keep moving. I remind myself to feel the rhythm when I peddle. Avoid the obstacles, but also notice all the beauty around me. And to breathe.
I’m hopeful that someday soon, I’ll once again be able to lose myself in the moment.
You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?
When I was young I thought we had this shit figured out.
The battle wasn’t over but we had admitted that women are autonomous human creatures … yada yada yada. Sadly, madly, infuriatingly, age has shown me that a whole bunch of people continue to define a woman only as a meat sack that surrounds a baby-making box.
Tina Stewart Brakebill 