Concerning chronophagous Cestoda [Chronicles of Infection, late may2012]


“I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves.”– Ludwig Wittgenstein

 

And: What cannot be said must be passed… hold on, that’s not right, Witti might just have been wrong on this one, you can’t get all of them right, can you? and who are „them“ anyway?…so from the top…

What cannot be said must be thought about at length and then written down with care and due consideration.

There. That is more like it. Nothing against silence, the catatonic bed-fellow of the void, universal as it is but let us not give it more power than it already holds. Silence works well for sleep, meditation, mourning and death but, as concerns language and thinking, it must not be allowed to occupy more than the (admittedly vital) interstices.

 

And what is the meaning of cumbersome beginning supra? Simply to make it clear to you and myself that once again, sadly again [ in a way even devastatingly again] I haven’t written in three or four weeks. Weeks, week, weak. Better not to know the exact number. That I have been unable to keep count in itself augurs darkly.

I have used as a feeble pretext as a self-protective, self-procrastinatory ruse, the explanation that the necessities/contingencies/extravagances of general living have borne down on me hard not allowing me the light of day to type out even a few salubrious phrases. Time’s very knee pressing down on my neck, ready to crack something.

It is pathetic reasoning: life, both abstract and concrete [with its multiple institutions and forms, its hardened endoskeleton of biopower, hello?] as a blocker rather than a catalyst of textual production. Textual production? Even the term is badly mistaken [level with writing event], taken as it sounds from, like, the mutant mongrel of an industrial, soot-spewing outlook and a copy-pastingly journalistic mode of conceiving of the art of writing. So no, no, not textual production. Writing, typing, scribing, penning… the inky magic of the written word.

 

I haven’t practiced it in a handful of weeks, telling myself that hoary ancient apologue of “I am too SWINESHLY busy for this…, I am too ANURANLY swamped for that… If only I get done with so-and-so I can finally focus on thingamajig!” Good thing I am putting an end to this self-deception, is my first remark then. Just a brushing off of the musty regrets and semantic dust-bunnies if you will.

But with great procrastination comes great – – – hmm, let’s see, the other day I was told the paper I handed in was too informal, too chatty. There appears to have been a spillover effect. Oh well, where was I? Yes, the analogy – – – With great procrastination, comes great debilitation. My personal hope or myth or graphomantic chimera is that one can put off with writing for a rather long while and then jump back on the shark as it were, without having missed a wave, write as flashy, floozy, fluid as ever before. What grand delusion! Yes, this is my shitpiss, dipshit second fairy tale; that I can type as fluently and HD-ready as when I last deserted this comely keyboard, abandoned me’ winsome white pages, absconded the blackguard, Castilian-castles-constructing platoon of imagination for the lusterless, ham-fisted, taxforms-encrusted, Toyota-Yaris-driving battalions of reality’s sadsack empire. For what was indeed, in the manufacturing sense of the word: textual production. Thirty, maybe forty pages that not so much as deserve a line of Themzini. Though here now, sur un metaplateau they hellaciously do very much so, je suis ready to admit.

Is it a relevant auto-da-fake? Yes in the sense that I hereby fully acknowledge and understand that writing needs vast amounts of regular practice and correctional refinement in the absence of which it becomes like so many scoops from the loo splattered onto page in suspicious black. I haven’t practiced under the moon of simulacric excuses, shame on me – the gigantic, glowingly red index finger of [your favorite deity] pointed at me, wagging. Me standing in a shower of shame, aslosh in shame, shame-shame but different, a shamebolic shaimt. Shame on me.

 

             [At this point you might ask yourself, as I do reluctantly: is this truly what the young man set out to write? This coprocryphal screed of navel-gazing? The answer: no, no, no and no, decidedly, not. But this is beyond even matters of practice, I believe these are the intractable energies of “creative” writing.]

The writing skill without practice deteriorates: the metaphorical muscle becomes flabby, a fat gut of analogies starts protruding from around the midsection, thin lines of lyrical deprivation start showing in the phrase-face, after only a few steps under the resplendent sun of the reader the narrative/argument, wheezing and coughing up putrid phlegm of mixed metaphors, comes to a halt and pensively scratches its convalescent cojones; briefly: holes open up all over ones prose – – –

And whence this personal delusion? Neither in running, badminton nor weight-work does it exist. There you return after a hiatus of four days, five on the inside, to find out your physical competences from 120 hours ago have mediately to intermediately evaporated, vamoosed, vacated the premises and it will take you another couple of days to reascend to your previous operational level. It is frankly depressing. A punch to any ego’s imaginary 8-pack abs. A fortnight? Let’s not even analyze that. A serious injury? Crawling back out of somatic hell, up a slippery slope of reaggravation and if [as in my case] post-30, up against the already staggeringly steep gradient of self-proliferating cellular regeneration decay. Ask me to not elaborate. You can’t pull of any stunt, you simply become worse: you run slower, your shots trundle into the net or fly far out of bounds, the weights will refuse to rise to your chin as they usually do, etc. To reiterate with all due clarity: lack of practice is a wretched affair.

 

 

Things are only slightly different when it comes to writing. But they are. In my case for example, I’ve remained immersed in the wondrous worlds of written words viscerally by virtue of DeLillo, Julian Barnes (have a wild guess), C. Aira [by god is he good; if you like Bolano, consider this: he was one of  Bolano’s favorite writers. The real writers’ writer] , Maquroll the Gaviero [who is warily guiding me through melancholy rainforests and memories] and others. Numberless others. All of this reading provides one [me again] with the sense that one is not very far from soon again assembling words oneself. Indeed, as most literate folk have probably experienced for themselves, ones very thinking suddenly takes on an unfamiliar, pleasant tint, which it takes a while to identify as the faint after-coloration of the voice of whichever novel one is presently most immersed in. I remember every so joyously, yes, oh yes, what crazy spinning whirlwind, what turbulence of children infiltrating the vast continent of night, you might, just so yes, you might have already guessed, the 500 voices of India’s TICKTOCKTICK midnight invading my head, best Bombay bombiloquent Booker of Bookers. Yeaaaaah, yaar, Saleem Sinai right inside my whistling-fever afflicted snotbox, daring me to hit the spittoon in a crimson stream of saliva. Such and more, much more, are the powers of fiction, my beloved reader.

And thus and so, virtue of the participatory imagination of reading, I’ve been granted the last couple of weeks not only imagery and conceptjewelry much in excess of my limited environs but also the sub rosa presumption that I will join the ranks of the writing once again. DW’s 5cense also always present in full-fledged visua-verbal force, beckoning me to blog pound-for-pound 😉

 

west txs endzone

And here I am, me voila, do ben I [as my brother once upon a distant night said to a perfect stranger at the train station of lucky Lucerne, pranked by mischievous chums]. However, it is a rather difficult and wearying business, this perennial stringing together of letters and words, which permit nothing more than to present themselves to the writer as a set of infinitely re-arrangeable symbols of everything that has already been said, done and experienced and everything that ever will be. Quite as in that elusive, hexagonal library of Babel wherein, soon enough, one finds oneself considering the idea of debalustrading oneself into the central well, so as to disintegrate in the wind of falling.

So what you need to do is get back up on that fictional horse and ride it as good as you bloody well can and make sure you hop back on the day after, and after, evermore at the smelly, cadmium crack of dawn as we rotate into the photonic flood of day. And ride that mare like a RR.

I am back, I am sodding back yaar.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

It eventuates that “smart” advertising smarts rather than having any smarts. For example the below is a window that popped up after I scoured an online thesaurus for synonyms of “orange” [of which cadmium is not exactly a glowing example]

 

And, ugh, to answer the question: no, ORANGE is not messing up my “essay”. Though it is obviously pissing all over your lovely ad-placement algorithm.

~ ~ ~

 

It behooves me to quickly comment on a flick name of “Blue Valentine”. It features Ryan Gosling [yeah, yeah, whatever, still a natural second to none] and that blonde lady from Brokeback Mountain. It’s a beautiful, intricate, subdued motion picture which I altitudinously recommend. Being continually spoiler-traumatized by one of my best friends I will make sure not to do the same unto you, dear reader but instead give you a general, hopefully attractive, idea of “Blue Valentine”. [The worst you can do in trying to get this movie is to mis-remember it as “Blue Velvet” and then, without checking too closely, putting that mistaken DVD in the player. And watch it, eyes and mouth distending with boredom or horror vacui. How such a cogulous[1], retina-insulting piece of tripe attained the status of a classic is beyond me.]

The movie depicts the fortuitous genesis and break-up of a relationship, deftly interweaving the ardent falling in and the crushing, tearful falling out of love. XOs to XVs to only just two Xs. [X and V are the initial letters of the neurochemicals responsible for ­– – – – – – –. Sometimes reading must be an act of overcoming resistances and frustrations so that the reader may emerge on the other side, cognitively well-muscled. Preaching down open doors]. Apart from the brilliant acting of the two main protagonists, besides the score [part of which the Goslinger performed him-very-self] that plucks your Chordae tendineae [80% collagen, 20% elastin] at will what is most striking and moves the movie into a region all of its own, is the authenticity of the relationship: the intimate, fumbled murmurs, the unlikely pleasure of awkward moments, the pre-verbal anticipation of the significant other’s needs. So there is the back and forth between courtship, with Gosling as a timid knight and the dissolution of their union in which Michelle Williams emotionally zooms away like a spaceship. There are intimations of dipsomania on his part but this never becomes quite clear in my mind.

 

Irregardless, it’s a gem in the department of romantic movies and this is even reflected in the effort that went into producing it:

Before filming the marriage dissolution between the main characters, Gosling and Williams prepared by renting a home, bringing their own clothing and belongings, buying groceries with a budget based on their characters’ incomes, filming home movies and taking a family portrait at a local Sears with the actress who played their daughter, and staging out arguments.[2][4] Cianfrance visited the actors and assisted them in building tension while remaining in character: “One night he told Gosling to go into Williams’ bedroom and try to make love to her. Gosling, soundly rejected, ended up sleeping on the couch.

Ultimately, if none of this convinces you I will just obscurely point out that Gosling received the… heck… Chlotrudis Award for best Actor.

Remember: not “Blue Velvet”.

~ ~ ~

 

I’ve been running very regularly lately, a bit more frequent than every other day. On each run I find myself pushing towards the hard edge of my stamina’s upper limit, not full force, just a solid push. Thus I’ve been becoming what is best called faster.

 

[The other day on the home stretch through the old part of the city, I accelerated down a throughway. It was nice because the place is usually crowded but now there were but a few amblers in the day’s last shimmerings. From out of nowhere a small boy burst into my path at two meter’s warning, gunning forth head first in hot pursuit of his sister. Children and their life-or-death games. None of our bodies could possibly be diverted or reverse-thrusted quick enough. I swerved left as best I could thrusting out my right to somehow accommodate the small mass of his body as injury-free as possible. Within a split second his fuzzy little body bounced off of my thigh and back onto its bottom. Somehow it was clear, instant bodily knowledge, that we were both uninjured. I couldn’t stop, it didn’t even occur to me to stop but I did turn back to listen for crying or make out other signs of distress: none.

I returned my gaze to the remaining run, staring into the air for a final power, a gift from nature to a runner in times of communion. There. I dashed back home wondering if there was any lesson to be gleamed from this collision.]

Been becoming faster. But. I have stopped the practice of measuring the distance online or chronifying my efforts. This seems to me now to somehow disrupt the purity of the run, which must be solely somatic, an instantaneous mutual recognition of mind and body in which knowledge, in the form of numbers, is an irritant. [Though I must say that often enough it is the kind of irritant equivalent to the one placed in oysters. But I don’t want to be that, be a running oyster with pearlescent high performance accreting around mileage and minute marks. Not for the time being.

 

My stride also has grown in clarity, in definition. The thighs scissoring from the hips, the lower legs flaring from the knees and the feet impacting just so, at optimal angles in equidistant locations. A one-two, one-two, one-two of upper body and legs. The head thrust into the future. There is the sense that the running body is feeling its way towards some self-ideal stride, nothing to do with picture-book perfection but whatever motion might most absolutely accommodate the kinetic needs and abilities of my body.

This is what I write about when I write about running. Running, gunning.

And when the going gets harder I sometimes find myself, paradoxically, straining even more towards a plateau on which I know I do not as yet belong. It’s as if I were trying to find out if I can be a hopeful monster in running, saltation theory, though jumping has no place in this motion. Eventually my lungs signal that corporeal doom is imminent and I decelerate to a more themzinian pace, the realpolitik of the body athletic, purposeful and home-bound. The sharp, self-referential loop of the street-runner, which forcibly bends back to the own front-door depending on that day’s fettle, fine or flunky.

 

I don’t know what reveals itself in those brief phases of attempted transcendence, some few, mythical signals about existence that in my mind unfortunately never find their way back into the proper signifiers. A revelation that lies entirely within itself. Rugged, Rabelaisian, revelatory running.

Running, running, running. Tear it up on the home stretch. For fuck’s sake, run! Let your arms swing through. Run within yourself and for yourself first. Do NOT pump your arms across your chest. Run, [your name] run! Push the hill. Land midfoot, Haile does too. Every thing after the first stride is the home stretch. Breathe. You’ve either run today or you haven’t.

With J. Bingham: “If you run, you are a runner. It doesn’t matter how fast or how far. It doesn’t matter if today is your first day or if you’ve been running for twenty years. There is no test to pass, no license to earn, no membership card to get. You just run.”

 


[1] touché, this word doesn’t really exist

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About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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