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Poets, Priests and Prostitutes / The Stolen Child
Colin Cheong
(contributed by Ian Cornelius Lai)





These are only memories. They remind me I have a past, no matter how painful the mempry is. Without past, present and future have no meaning.





The problems with dreams, is that they sometimes come true. But they can never be perfect as we made them to be. Then comes the heartbreak. But, we need dreams to help us live. That is the purpose of our imagination and dreams - to help us live, to project amd follow the image. Sometimes the image gives way to reality and we walk into dreams come true. Other times, we hit projection screens. But remember, the dream is not an end in itself. And once the dream is found, it is at the same time lost and we have to create new dreams to live for.





Riding, deep down we have not forgotten we are man the warrior. We have thrown away our spears and knives and other phallic symbols and exchanged them for pens and ties. But in doing that, we strip away some of the true self that lies under the business suits, We need to be physical again, to face physical danger and conquer it to prove to ourselves that we are still men. What is still left to us that has been handed down from our fighting forebears? The mount. Maybe not a horse anymore, but suddenly more horsepower between the thighs of one man than once in a calvary platoon.





A motorcycle is a man's responsibility. Because you got to look after it that's why. You can leave it alone, let it become junk. But you will get hurt. Hurt you bad too. If your brakes are not working, maybe you die. No lights, no one sees you and they hit you. and when you are on the road, everything you do counts, whether it is wrong or right. You ride anyhow, you get hurt too. This you cannot control. Blame God, blame Fate, blame the other driver. But too bad, dead is dead. Can't do anything about it. But your own motorcycle and the way you ride is. Yes, that is where it matters. Remember, take responsibility for yoursef and everybody else on the road. You are your brother's keeper.





Motorcycle is like a woman. I got friends, they don't take care of their wives, their wives leave them, sleep with other men. Let them alone, and they hurt you, just like a motorcycle you don't look after. But this is where motorcycles and women are not the same. You see, when you treat your motorcycle good, she treats you good right back. if you can take care of her, you know you can trust her. Not so for a woman. No, not so for a woman. No matter how you take care of her, you cannot depend on her heart, not like the heart of a Triumph, four-stroke twin. No, a woman's heart is fickle. If your motorcycle kills you, it is because of something you did or did not do. But the woman... how can you tell? What can you do that is right? How can you ever be sure that all has been taken care of?





It is so different to ride with a woman you love behind you, holding tight, pressing warm, against your back hiding in your wind-shadow, her thighs gripping your shanks. That way you always remember that there is someone you are responsible for. Every stupid move you make counts for two. Every dumb thing she does matters too.





Suddenly, you can't be reckless anymore. You can no longer court Death and flirt with her, when the thrill of speed, the throbbing of a 750cc engine between your thighs, the rush of adrenalin were the same as sex. But Death is a jealous mistress and you knnow you cannot outrun her forever. She waits, at the next ubtersection, the next corner, the next highway. So to protect the only other thing in your life that has any meaning, you take her off the bike, and get off yourself so you can walk with her, but you forget that first love and time after time, you will feel the need to be unfaithful.



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