I think if I had a motorcycle I would ride off into that sunset and hit that hill so fast that I might just be able to reach the moon. The full moon, the one with all the dents in it, the one that’s made out of cheese. The one with all of our dreams attached to it, as if each crater has a home for each of us. A home for our dreams, our hopes of all that we could be or all that we want to be. This is the moon that hangs over us night and day, as if watching our every move and catching all of our thoughts of rescue and even escape. Those dreams of being the hero that we know we can be and maybe we should have been and also our dreams of escaping that earthly grasp of guilt and chances not taken or things that we wish could be undone.

If I had a motorcycle I would ride so far away from these feelings and ride straight into that sunset, or that sunrise, that holds such hope and passion for the things that we know are good, that are right. Those things that pang at our insides, even on a warm day, would be like bugs flying by, caught up in the current of the speed of my travel. The occasional smack of one hitting my helmet would be a distraction but the clear desire to reach my goal would make this hit merely what it is...a bug. It would not stop me or even slow me down. My pursuit of the moon would be too strong and my focus would be so great that smacks and splatters of bugs on my helmet would be the least of my problems. If I had a motorcycle.

If I had a motorcycle I would take on the most treacherous landscape to rescue my dream. I would ride through the trees shifting from low to high gear with ease. Bouncing from one jump to another I would hold on and persevere. Down and up and down and up through the mud and dirt I would persevere. The trees might even unknowingly try to hold me back but with a firm grasp on what I know to be truth I would hold on and come out to the opening with my engine roaring. The opening that makes all things true. The one that is  green and colored like the pictures that have been painted for centuries. The opening that would tell me that I have reached my destination, that I have fought the good fight and battled through the mud to see this very moment. The moment when all is made right. The moment when the helmet is lifted and the smell of the field flowers are almost overpowering and the birds are singing such a clear song that I think I can actually speak bird, this is when I can see the moon holding a sign that hangs in the stars and it reads “Come and receive your motorcycle, it has been paid in full”.

 This is what I would do if I had a motorcycle.

Memories are funny things. I have some that I would like to live in, like those beautiful dreams that are cut off too abruptly by the screaming of an alarm clock. The dreams that I try desperately to get back to but inevitably slip through my grasp like the smoke after a blown out candle and inevitably fade into the grey. The grey that is my mind, or the part of my mind that is disguised or undercover, in hiding. The same area that I think, that I hope, holds on to these dreams for some later date.  A date that will be revealed someday with a glorious applause, with a grand introduction and with great familiarity.  Applause not for anything that I have done but for a bigger power that controls all the lost memories and all the lost dreams that have finally been released with the passion of racing hounds after their prize. Applause because this is what life was supposed to be like, our deams, like those memories lost, like a present on Christmas afternoon, that has been lost and unseen, hidden behind the tree and now has been found and unwrapped and has exploded with the power of the fourth of July and is exactly what you wanted, but never even knew to ask for. These are our memories and this is where our memories run to, they run to that place where they can be safe and protected and kept true and spotless all for the day of the opening or unveiling, the day of the applause. 

But then there are the other memories, the ones that I wish would leave, the ones that I wish I could tear out of my soul and cast them into a lake of fire and watch them burn for an eternity all in an instant. Funny, strange funny not haha funny, these are the memories that stick, the ones that do not want to leave, no matter how hard I try to escort them out, they stick around like an unwanted guest who has worn out his welcome. These memories are
the ones that, like a disease, insist themselves on my soul and invade my peace, my forgiveness. They act like they are a continued reality when in fact they have already been dismissed and yet for some reason I continue to entertain their lies. Like little trolls with little power I give them more than they deserve and I feed them with my time and energy until they grow into something that actually has some power.

If I could only do the same for my beautiful dreams, and my desirable memories that I wish I could dream about on command. If only I gave the same power to the memories of greatness as I do the memories of darkness. I wonder if that great day of applause might show itself, just enough, to make my memories, my dreams, a reality.

Mark Scarano

It was an early Autumn afternoon and I must have been twelve years old but feeling like I was 21. I was walking, alone, in the woods near my house enjoying the color and the life of the woods, which in Autumn is so wonderfully strange, so alive even in it’s dying. Spring is like a rebirth, life all at once seems new again, like we’ve been given a second chance to make things right. The smell of lillys and lilacs fill the air, dreams are born and actually have a chance at becoming a reality. Summer rolls in like a wave and carries us out to the refreeshing waters, and in the long afternoon sun, with sweat soaked brows, dreams are built.

But in Autumn a new energy seems to take over, an energy that I can’t quite explain. The smell of lillys and lilacs and dreams of possibility are gone and instead the smell of leaves saying goodbye and the thoughts of what is, fills the air. Yes
Autumn is strangely wonderful, especially in the woods. The whisper of the wind through the leaves hanging on and the faint sound of some who let go and embark in their greatest, most brilliant, most elegant moment as they dance, their last dance, so gracefully, to the ground.  

That afternoon was just like this as I walked through the woods with my shiny new bb
gun. I had shot a few things in the yard and was quite impressed with my accuracy. I suppose this is what got me out into the woods. As I was walking my eyes were drawn to a branch, high up, and there he was, looking right at me, a sparrow. Without thinking, I pumped my gun, aimed, and fired...bam...feathers falling toward the ground...thud...silence. 
 
I ran to where it had landed, the poor thing lying limp on the ground, I felt horrible. I poked it with a stick just to make sure it was dead. It felt dense, heavier than I expected. I felt careless and irresponsible, heavy. So I dug a hole in the wooded floor, laid her still warm body in the ground and gently covered her up with the earth and leaves. As I walked back to my house I could hear the birds singing and the leaves and sticks cracking as my boots fell heavy on the wooded floor. I sat and rested on a rock and picked off some soft green moss and let it move through my fingers, it was comforting. There’s something about the earth and the life that it holds, that when you can hold just a piece of it, it connects you in some way that you can’t explain. I felt that magic that day, and even in the death that I had just experienced I felt life in that soft piece of moss and my surroundings. As I looked up to the forest’s ceiling, the sun shown through the autumn leaves and seemed to light them up like a warm winter fire.
 
I didn’t shoot my gun again for days but when I did, I shot at cans. 

Mark Scarano