When we stop counting bridges

I have found that the morning rides are a good time to think productively, as opposed to the apartment, where ruminations run in circles, bounce off the walls, and become brittle in the stale, dim air.

I am allowing one of my stories to fold in on itself, and for this to continue, I will need to employ (or at least consult) the golden triangle. The goal being to find the level of reality in the story that is most basic, and so most true, but always there is a more basic element to truth. And so, much of today's ride was spent folding.

I may have mentioned that I ride by the river, and so from time to time must cross a bridge. They are laid out relatively evenly, and so, since I don't mark distance in miles or kilometers, or even time, it has become a very simple thing to mark my progress in bridges. For instance, on Thursday, I rode two bridges. Yesterday, I rode four. Today I rode six. But at the sixth, I decided to veer away from the river and down into the country, scouting for next weeks attempt at a mountain ride. I passed through a little rural community, I wouldn't even call it a village, and then saw another small bridge coming out from beyond a bend. This seemed like a good entryway into the mountains, so I decided to make it seven bridges and go home, but at this point I saw that the bridge was not leading over a tributary river, but a marsh, with giant waterlilies. My mind went to Jules Verne, at least my childhood memories of A Journey the the Centre of the Earth, and my memories of reading this book are very spotty at best, but my recollection is of the characters continually entering new parts of this underground world, slowly entering a cavern and having revealed some brilliant wonder. There were at least a thousand of these giant pink flowers, and the red frame of a shinto shrine on the hill leading away from the marsh. I stopped here for a little while and my mind went completely empty. Perhaps this is where Kappa lives.

Then on the return trip, I made some evaluations of time, the schedule between now and November, and I allowed myself to take out a piece of a beautiful night I spent recently, look at it, so to speak, and let it make me as quiet as the lilies.

I ran out of water before I got home. Sustenance must be dealt with in all of its many forms.