je suis triste
after nearly a year of parking my Paris bike in the street outside my flat
in one of those bike-parking-lots you see
with a dozen pieces of bent metal
to support all these vehicles
old and new
belonging to all these people
you'll never know
but who all have many different stories
and ways with their bike
tonight I leave my flat
I go to my bike
I unlock it
and it won't move
after nearly a year of this wonderful bike doing (almost) exactly as I tell her
it takes me longer than it should to realise
what's going on !
I scan the chain
the gears
the shift
all looks OK, even if she's seen better days
but she still won't pedal
and I'm bewildered
slowly I realise there is a dent in the metal mud-guard
merde! dents that will not budge despite the attempts of my weak hands
they press into the tire and grip it like defiant scars on otherwise normal skin
scars of an accident
always and ever an accident
I'm sure it meant nothing to the driver
if they even noticed it happen
as they hurried down the narrow, one-way street
towards the inevitable traffic lights that will tell them to
ARRÊT
the driver notes nothing but the way to traffic-lights (feux)
but I find - after the fact - a block in the road
or a signal - material as it could be - that the road is changing
must needs change
ce que dire rien pour le conducteur / what means nothing for the driver
signifie beaucoup pour moi / says a lot to me
for one, my plans are changed
I can't go meet my friend and dance as planned
too far, too slow
so plans are changed,
and changed again
LIVES ARE ALTERED
for two, how could it not strike me as prescient
that the day before I leave Paris
(in the most official sense to date)
my bike - my always companion during this time here -
permits herself to be intervened with
by one of the larger, more aggressive road vehicles
(who until now, a thousand times, passing by this narrow road, haven't affected her)
while she waited patiently in the bike-parking-lot
for me to collect her
and take her on our way
the red back-light is smashed
all that's left is a tiny little bulb
I imagine it still works
but its reflective casing is non-existent
it feels violent, this random act
that no-one will acknowledge as such
except me
it feels strongly
I feel it too pertinently
l'hasard frappant qui se lie à la verité actuelle
if it was my bike trying to tell me something
it is either:
get out of Paris !
or
I can't live without you !
so I'm even sadder to leave her in this
lonely, self-sacrificed state
this accident, among many
speaks to me
and gives repercussions
all the more strong
because
the driver has no idea
and certainly thinks not to it now
while I
not only think
but write, seek answers
FEEL HURT
by what I term this violent occurrence
but which is nothing more or less
than accident
like all the rest
perhaps I'd be better off heading for traffic-lights
instead of seeing prescience in broken bikes and altered nights
it must be that all is accident or nothing is
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