There is common ground between the act of riding a motorcycle – essentially jettisoning oneself through the landscape aboard 400 pounds of moving metal parts, unsecured and unprotected - and the experience of staring into the vortex of a well-built fire. Each is capable of literally and/or metaphorically sucking a body from one space into another, creating transition zones, psychological wormholes through which one can escape the more deadening aspects of everyday life, at least for a little while.
Both of these experiences, for me, create peace. There's a special kind of truth within that in-between place. It is immune to everything human, frail, flawed and fucked, in its general nothingness. Not unlike the space one enters from within a lover's arms. If a heaven existed, mine would be there.
