Cycles Within Cycles

I met a Russian rocket scientist in Brooklyn.
A real one.
He used to be in charge of propulsion systems
the ones they put in ballistic missiles.
Till he saw the light and just stopped.
He didn't want to be part of the Killing Machine.
He was Jewish but married a non.
His light was bright.
We hit it off.
And talked about life
the philosophers that we are born to be.
Now I can't remember his name.
He changed his vocation from destruction
to rebuilding and would pick out the tossed away
computers in the early 90's and build functional ones
to sell or give away.
His name will come to me. Yuri? Yigor?
I forget details.

He lived on the same street just an avenue away.
And so he built me a computer to surf away my life on
a mix of Hewlett Packard and an array of unknown cards
and boards that worked under Windows 3 then 98
a life saver. the only way to survive when you're living
on prayers, charity and whatever may come in the guise
of a blessing.

East 18th it was. Same street I started out in 1970
Returning unplanned in 93 with my son and dog in tow
We were on the road to Portland Oregan
but took a turn for the sake of
just breathing and a roof over our heads
quick
and for the self to formulate some kind of closure.

I got myself a silver Ross bike and trekked Kings County
till that got small and too familiar and I moved across the
river into Manhattan to charter and carve a niche for myself
through the backdoors and alleyways and main routes battling it
out with buses and taxis and claiming the other bikers as allies.

I needed ID so I got myself a drivers license at 36.
And it would be 4 years till I actually got to drive a car.
And only then it was out of necessity. Then it became fun.
I found out about thrift shops and they became a channel for God
to communicate with me. Colors, books, people, energy. It was
the Thrift Shop that became our Meeting Place. I knew them all
from Spring Street to East 83rd and back again into Brooklyn
Atlantic, Boro Park, McDonald Ave. Brighton Beach, Park Slope
and the stoop sales they were all channels.

And there a book title would make itself known
or an encounter with some one
or a rock from a faraway place would present itself
or nothing at all.
And that too was a conversation in itself.

And when my new red, faster and lighter bike, purchased for 25 bucks at the Salvation Army in Flatbush got stolen the quest to get it back was constant. The lesson? Tenacity and Faith. For 4 months. My eyes were open to RED. I looked up and down in all places. In all directions. Nothing mattered but finding it. If only to alleviate the hurt I felt that someone would rip me off. And one day on the old Ross, that I had kept because you never knew, in Park Slope on Sixth Avenue in the heart of chicano, lesbian, yuppie, yippie dwelling places, I SAW IT. Perched against a lamplight. On the street. In front of a pizza place. And began trembling. The quest over. And confronted everyone within. With how dare you's. And police were called by me. Unfortunately I still haven't mastered the art of convincing anyone of anything but manage to bring a certain element of ridicule into the equation as if I am subconsciously mocking myself while going ballistic. Never a good idea.

I got my bike back. The ross donated to the police. The red bike ridden for a while sporadically for these were the days prior moving to Woodstock and after I got the Blue Glittery Ford I hardly ever rode it and eventually left it in the front yard of the veterinarian who gave my cats their checkups on Route 9.

And the only thing I really miss is that basket. I fine one. Rust proof, huge, strong - rigged well by the former Israeli bike guy on Ocean Ave who used bed slats with drilled holes to keep it up and firm. Meant to carry heavy loads. They never budged. This basket was classic. No wonder the pizza place wanted that bike - it could fit a stack of 10 pies easily. I used the basket to carry everything from groceries to a monitor to a load of 1000 porcelain jars (from the Brooklyn stockyard to east 18th - no easy feat yet accomplished).

This was freedom time. Freedom to move, freedom to glide. Freedom to regain. I felt I was released from prison. That the 23 years in Israel were some kind of punishment and now for the first time I was allowed to breathe freely. With no one to answer to, to defend against. No wars, no shrieking, no drama, no mentally ill, poverty, dry, caked with sweat, garbage stinking, buses and their gasses - no more. It was over. I felt my sentence was served in full and I somehow, miraculously got paroled. And the cycle being churned by my legs and gravity kept rolling and the cycle surrounding me that moved by the stars and all that is kept turning and jobs were had and son moved back to do his honorable thing in the army and 12 steps were tread upon.

And I found that I was indeed a cool person but that it wasn't good to advertise, so I would venture out, moving fast, the faster the better and all interactions of the personal kind were that of the internet on AOL and even those were sporadic and short lived. And something had to give. Eventually it always does by surprise. And Brentwood, and Rainbow and from that decision to move upstate all things fell into place. Finding a place to live was a tad rough but I was persistent. I found someone to drive me up there and back. And I took at least one bus ride to scope out the town and print out signs to hang every where. But eventually talking to someone face to face and just asking flat out worked. And within hours the place was found. And back to Brooklyn again for the last time, where possessions were sold for just enough to get us there - US$300.

And I was able to release Kings Highway and all the pent up, charged grief it held in all its memories. And the stuff that I got out by marathon rides over the Bridge was left there to mingle with the mix of trees, chassids, landladies and russian rocket scientists. And I was leaving it all behind me. I was moving to a place I wanted to be because it fit. It was right. And there was no coercion or force or abandonment in the move. It was simply taking flight with some unknown wings. Unsure but it felt right.

I was moving up.