It’s early afternoon in mid-August. The thread got lost for a few weeks there, and I’ll have to look back up the page to see where it was when I last wrote about whatever this is about. I don’t think these threads are connected, but I don’t think they’re not connected. I wrote a poem about scatter plots, and that’s about how it feels. Am I a mathematician? Do I look for lines of statistically optimal fit? I believe I do. It’s a nurture thing, not a nature thing, I believe. But there are probably trend lines to prove that incorrect, as a statement of belief. I’m sitting at a picnic bench, and a bee is periodically bussing the table, but not taking anything with it back to the meadow. I don’t believe I will tip. If the tiny yellow birds could stop by, I would leave them a little something. It’s a not-quite-cicada buzz in the background, on top of the car sounds behind me (or perhaps underneath). I’ve been thinking about listening, prompted by a book, thinking about correspondence, prompted by another book, and now thinking about wasps nests and rotting wood, prompted by the eponymous reality. One leg is rolled. Or I should say, the pants are rolled on one side. Writing is still working its way up to becoming a goal-able thing, so I need some intermittent goal while this digestion process continues. I think I’ll set out on two wheels for a middle of the United States bicycle tour in a couple days. Get way out there, camping and staying in small and large downtown hotels. For what is the way of time not spent inside the definitions of economists but to wander, squander, and see things at a speed slower than vehicular? A question that answers itself in the image of the immediate future. And the sound of books coming in aurally. If I miss the sound of a few cars and birds, so be it.
I’m several miles out from town and my stomach audibly grumbled. It is mid-afternoon, and cereal has been the total of the day’s consumption, in addition to coconut cream coffee and an espresso. I was off the coffee wagon and I’m back on, but I’m not going to be eating it in the middle of the afternoon anymore. I think it must be thought of as a food that creates an ungovernable (or quenchable) hunger. I’m riding along with the insects that are creating the background music, not a composer, not a violinist, not even an audience member. I’m a part of the performance; if field calls in the middle of the day and no one picks up, will it keep calling? I’m recording the call, so even if I’m not here to answer tomorrow, the answer can be yes.
Drivers have wildly different reactions to bicycles. Some cross entirely to the other side of the road. Others make a game of getting as close as possible, a statement on the preeminent usage of the asphalt. Others have the balance, not trying to declare anything but an intention to cause no harm and maintain enough space.
I’ve been thinking about the disappearance of a sense of myself that comes in waves. I don’t think I should write about it, because you will wonder what could be wrong, and potentially take on the project of trying to fix it. When the I erodes, it goes from italicized to flat. It’s just an underscore, underscoring the lack of motive force from inside this vehicle that no one is driving. Sometimes I’m horizontal. Sometimes I watch television on my telephone. Sometimes I do the dishes, but not often. I don’t wonder if I use lame adjectives like “very” too often, because I’m not writing (and no one minds these not-so-quirky fluffs in speech). Well, here I am writing about it. But here’s the thing. It’s not my problem because I’m not there anymore at such times. It’s not really someone. It’s some many, as usual, but it’s not one of the ones that writes much. So you won’t get to meet here. You follow, I trust. Trust me, me here, you don’t have to worry.
I remember things when prompted by a connected thread or an obvious prompt. My memory is not like the memories of other people I’ve observed; some people seem to have a river of memory that they can travel up and down at will in a [very] fast boat, or even in a helicopter. Mine is more like a desert with rains that come every couple of years; a series of deserts really. Dozens of deserts with unpredictable and rare rainfalls, and when the rain falls, the particular plane of memory floods and sometimes cascades over to a couple of other planes further down the desert watershed. I don’t recommend trying to understand this process. I’m trying not to try to understand it too hard, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
Roman Ryan 