Usually there is an urge there, right behind my forehead, a kind of mental pressure that is looking for release the only way it knows how: down the spine, out into the arms, right into the fingers, down onto the keys and up&over into the screen… the net actually, the stupendous web known as internet. Which, if you think about it for approx. .01 seconds is an entirely crap term. My thoughts and narratives want to embed themselves there, or I want to send them there to signify and flourish and persist [like ill-bred children] or probably both.
But tonight there is nothing, a sweet void, no particular burning urge, nor a nagging sense of desperation either, just blankness, the whiteness of the page before it becomes muddled by lines and lines of black glyphs. Though that is not quite true either: there is a diffuse will to write, a will without an object, the worst kind of will there is. It must be obeyed before it auto-digests and leaves behind a vast hole in my mind.
The weekend? No. The significance of having dinner with one’s friends? Neither. The imperturbable madness of Bolano’s writing? Perhaps later but certainly before the hurricane of shit begins.
Then how about… how about what? Another rendition on fledgling zen thoughts? Better not, better to return to this topic when it has accreted substance and practice. What on bloody earth then? Finer points of Badminton? How an intermediate backhand smash/drive can buy you some time rather than the certain death of trying to clear it into the opposing back-court and thereby likely lobbing it into perfect smash-range? Who would want to read that? Who would even want to write on that? No. Ok, fine, bene, as you please. Dave Wallace’s sneaky crypto-Buddhism wouldn’t be all that bad, would it? Nope, neither, maybe if you had a couple of hours on your sweaty hands. Another time is what I’m saying amigo. I’m talking/typing to myself, it looks like. So… what…
It’s November, autumn for Brits, fall for Yankees and we are still blessed with exceedingly clement temperatures. On Sunday I heard birds chirping as if it were mid-March and though I am incapable of bird-song [as much as I am of human], I felt compelled to get out on the balcony and whistle to them that “No, it is still November, don’t get it twisted my feathered friends.” I can only imagine their disappointment, tiny, skinny-legged, feather-puffed yet shivering, as they perch on a branch inside a tree’s bole’s cavernous hole by the end of this month, confused, seasonally depressed, all out of song.
As for myself, fellow-being-empathy parenthesized for now, I’m absolutely loving it. I can still saunter about in my trainers like a desperately youthful retiree, still sport my NB sneakers, not yet fuss and fret about gloves, not pay any particular mind to black patches of pavement and obliviously, avianly pretend it is march/april. One of the brightest upsides is that running remains positively hassle-free: lightyears from ChueNegele, no double-layered American-football socks, nor those ball-squashing, killer-pruritus-inducing, glu-max-flaunting thermo pants, no sir. Instead I lightly lope on new balance, a crisp breeze bringing me to optimal operating temperature.
Tonight I took with the ruby-red rear light, blinking brilliantly doubly then laying off for a bit, then doing so again. Thereby post-crepuscular flaneurs and zealous dog-sitters and run-of-the-mill automobilists as well as fellow runners in the dark should steer clear of collision course. The ability of pedestrians and cars and cyclists to preternaturally clog up sidewalks/streets three to seven times their own width is astonishing: they either execute some uncalled-for heard maneuver or they locomote so erratically as to become a major collision liability, I shit you not. It felt good having that rubbery black, red rear-light with me, conscientious, well-equipped, stoked with purpose. [Meanwhile Nike plus has gone the way of all dysfunctional, ultimately useless digital gizzmos.]
The first few meters I tell myself to take it slow but I never do, it is not possible for the majority of runners I believe. There is a burst of energy and enthusiasm and one runs as though one were only trying to get to the end of the block. However, after about 100 meters or so, some rational mental module kicks in and I slow to a themzinian pace. I have no idea what it is, I am torn between wanting to know and not wanting to know. My runs are basically chaos runs, somewhere between 45 and 60 minutes, striding leisurely on my way out and then accelerating on my way home. I want to know out of sheer, archetypical curiosity, due to an abstract notion of improving, because then I can say XYZ when somebody should pop that bothersome question. I don’t want to know out of fear of killing the ignorant fun of it, the pure animal joy of getting from M to T to L to SS2 at a decent clip.
Also, there is VoegeliGaertli and it feels like there are eyes watching and I vainly, stupidly dislike the thought of being perceived as one of those downtempo leisure lopers who get out there two or three times a year. Is part of the pathetic truth. 3 blocks later, by the time I get to Kino Capital, I feel like I’ve almost already found my pace though that is not the case. There’s a long, gentle, slowly rising curve to the left [south-west] across a really ugly bridge which, incredibly, one a couple of design awards.
The criteria of design awards are like an extremely deep lake of absolutely black water at the bottom of which there is an ugly aquatic creature, biding its time to kill and eat a raw swimmer. Only architects and typographers and public engineers and fellow guild members are permitted to swim in this black lake and they do, they actually do, despite the risks involved. Well, at least the down-slope of Langensandbruecke helps you to accelerate if nothing else.
Seven seconds away, Werkhofstrasse zooms by on my right-hand side. As it is dark, casual sex worker’s are presenting their wears, tits and ass that is. Cars crawl by as if they are driving along the North-Western boarder of Tribschen Stadt [a district for young, flourishing families] for some other purpose, as if they aren’t taking ganders at the East-European and West-African women who are making…what?… cat-calls, ribald advances, convoluted reversals of the power structure.
Following that sex-laden stripe of scenery, every window of every floor of the CSS building is underscored by blue light, every night, for no good reason other than possibly making a mockery of the company’s [following every other company] sustainability or eco-friendly ass-pirations.
• • •