(Segment 1)
And so I begin. Am I beginning anything? Or am I simply wading out into the soon-to-be flooded marshland, inevitably swept away as the dirty waters surge past my hipline and lift me off of my supportive, skinny legs. The waterlogged mire on my doorstep hungers for new meat.
I remember a past version of myself writing about this feeling. The feeling of being swept up and carried on by the work, reaching the critical mass –SPECTROMETRE– whereby one needn’t put any additional energy into the system. It has become self-sustaining. Worded differently of course, initially I wrote something along the lines of a ‘run-in with a bull’ that might have led to the bull running into me. Which I am sure you understand would then of course lead to the bull dragging your soon-to-be (or currently in the process of being) mangled body across the floor (which would most likely be the floor of a bull fighting arena, where else would a bull naturally occur?).
A BULL OCCURS IN HIS BEDROOM, THE LIBRARY, AT THE WRITING DESK, AND SO ON.
The act has begun already, musing on its behalf has stirred the self-sustaining proton collision into being, an existence if you will (radioactive, asexually reproducing bull). What a sad existence – think no more on this matter. To become swept up means one ephemeral location up ahead, the essential destination.
Femoral artery – stop over point.
Please leave your luggage on the train as you disembark for the evening, we train conductors need something to do while you are all out, and nothing is quite so fun as examining the liquid assets of a stranger.
I felt numbed, with a severely waterlogged head.
Lap 1: 30.4 seconds, not good enough
Lap 2: 30.2 seconds, still not good enough
Lap 3: 31.5 seconds, dreadfully slow
Lap 4: 32 seconds flat, you’ve gotten worse
“Please coach, I just need a water break, let me prove it to you, I have what it takes!”
The brain was denied a water break. The brain subsequently drowned in knee-high water.
What a shame.
Finding the words to accurately express my bodily feeling, the feeling I am doing with my body, is impossible for a number of reasons. Prime (rib) of which is that an old me has written these words. Even now I find myself trying to think back and relive the specific flow of blood in my veins from moments prior. The blood is important, trust me. (Would I choose to control my blood flow if I could? Hmmm… investigate further).
This realisation is not a problem, in all honesty it’s probably a good thing. For once we, as the meaty flesh meat bag baggage claim bags that we are, accept such a defined existence, then we can begin to appreciate the mildew that forms in place of a 1:1 translation of feeling. Forgive me, the words are suddenly thick, and I only have eight more minutes until I am birthed back into the common marketplace of my bedroom. Essentially this newfound residue, created through attempting to attain the unattainable, becomes something in itself. This doesn’t happen just once. This happens every time the residue is read, smelled, tasted, shot, pressed in a book, ripped off and used as loo-paper. I wouldn’t blame you if you have just run out of loo-roll. And so, the exit point of an entry point. Future segments will be unapologetically different, varied and diverse. But you know that I am the only one left out of the loop currently.