Chronicles of Infection [serotinal soliloquy, pt1, incompl.]


For one heat, all know, doth drive out another, One passion doth expel another still.
– George Chapman

A deep, justified, sensible instinct tells one not to loose any words about the meteorological conditions. But it is still summer. September 5th and one was within one’s right, on this very day, to gallivant about in running shorts and shirtless, topless, whichever case would apply. Not that anybody did. I even inquired about the water temperatures of Lake LU though that element is as interesting to me as it was to the aliens in a certain unnameable motionpic. What’reUgonnaDo, Eh?

I’ve been mentally prepared for overcast skies, precipitation plus inclement temperatures for a good fortnight now; this mindset has rendered me unable to deal with the renascent (not that it even ever died) the bornagain heat. The heat, the heat. There is sweltering, the puddles have dried out, you seek out shaded corners, all those actions that suggest that the earth is coming too close to the sun when, actually, astronomically, what has changed is the angle of irradiation. What is fortunately missing are the insects who I assume in accordance with their circadian molecules have burrowed into the soil or the bole of certain tress or wherever it is that insects burrow into during the offseason. Note: this is not a complaint. This is, contrary to the adjectives thus far deployed, an exultation. The heat! (Nothing so obvious as the Floridian one.)This is what all of the year could look, smell, feel like to me if I had a presidential veto in the matter. Should. It seems like a baby version of LA weather without the poverty and violence which, anyway, are not all that weatherinduced. The only problem with the balmy temperatures is, is that people are like to loose their heads, their capacity for if not rational then at least sensible thought. People = I. Suddenly the lakeside is the best place for doing everything, even quiet concentrated reading. Peripheral motion demands one lift one’s head and track it in high hope of glimpsing an aesthetic gluteus maximus and other such parts of the anatomy. One = I, again. Not just one motion here, but almost every motion, at the edge of one’s vision wins out over the text at the center of one’s visions. The point being that the library, despite quaintness and isolation from estival benefits, would still be the best place for studying. And yet.


(I seem to be running out of words, out of serious, poetry-grade vocabulary. It comes off nicely to be typing in a restrained, simple register for a change but not if it is the only option available. I’ve been reading a lot lately, heavy stuff so I do wonder where all my beautiful words went? Glabrous? Serendipitous? Inchoate? I should find a way to work back in the adamantine gems of some impossible… Or maybe this is just a cystful, serotinal longing. Something induced by Sol precariously overstaying its welcome. Alors lexcial blight must be addressed somewhen else then.)

            Waking up early means you get to squander your daytime more judiciously without even feeling all that bad. At least you got out the feathers at 7:15 anti-mer… anti-every-sleepy-impulse-in-yer-body. Clearly, I’m still in holiday mode, which in trademark idiocy I only truly switched to the very day I realized the summerbreak is not over as yet. Slow me, flat me, melted me. At some point, two years ago or maybe three, outside pressure seems to have become a pathetic precondition for acceptable levels of productivity. Or mayhap having churned out that negligible French paper underwrites my recent nondoings: at least you did that! Quinze pages of mutilated hexagonal gibberish, hexa… the territorial moniker. Riding the tangent outwards here.

            But has there been anything of significance? My friend A told me about his present life today, the unadulaterated, unabetting level of stress: 120% an more. Projectmanagement, cutovers (which were vaguely made clear), postponed thesis, rainchecked familylife, worklifeImbalance, one could’ve almost expected a tale about a leaky kitchensink. The metaphor he used was the same that has been applied to the US subprime housingmarket: underwater. He said that he is diving around but he didn’t mention at what point he might have to come up for air. And then, paradoxically, if you dive around underwater for too long, down in the overtime brine, you burn out. You spontaneously, psychologically selfcombust; I couldn’t stop that thought. A underwater, his thinning hair like black kelp, going up in flames. But I didn’t dare utter the word, I was afraid of auguring a malevolent moirai. You cannot say the thing that must not happen. Especially not on a scorchingly hot day. So evidently anyway, I realized I live a much, much less stressed life and thereby felt a dumb, animal, comparative sense of relief; like the sunshiny sister of envy. At least I don’t have to make downpayments on my house, at least there are not three other lives entirely hitched to my dilapidated chariot to nowhere.

            It is now time to write about what I was actually going to write about. It is also 00:28. Which is 60 minutes later than (not then) my miraculously resurgent sense of responsibility has asked of me to start going to bed these dazed days. The compartementalized self. The heat, the heat. Always something.

We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. We will welcome summer’s ghost.
Henry Rollins

Nice Ass 03



About tmabona

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