A journal of questionable quality

Monday, January 01, 2001

appendum

..as I said, car, brakes, late, awful noise, knowing this was not good, vision pinning, all to black , whistling noise so loud in my head, uncomfortable, awake, waiting for shock to boot in so I can get pain free, attempting to stand—you know, the whole thing in a blinding, grinding, painful, moment.

And, I still don't know what she may have had on—managed to see the postal bike on the same route, but, alas, a year later, it's piloted by a guy and I have no desire to know what he has under there at all.

But, the place. That place that you go when you are high on effort, a dreamland. Where in hell is that place? I went out for a blast on the bike today; at 20-25 klm I am on the edge of that place. Rhythm booting in, it all becomes a natural thing...

Memories and ideas, things seem to float about in there.
I had, a long time ago, a terrific and tumultuous affair with the wife of a friend of mine (what? you have a problem there? I don't), a wonderful passionate redhead, one of two redheads that have changed my life. It's long over, and I'm pedaling and thinking of her. I'm specifically thinking of a conversation we had. One conversation. Ten years ago. Maybe more.
Where does that come from? Maybe the redheaded pedestrian set the thing in motion, who can tell?
I'm enamored with Hillman Curtis's productions—short films for the web (the title of a book by him as well should you feel the need to buy it for me); he does 2 minute pieces, packed full of—packed full of what? How does he do that thing that I cannot explain anyway? A feeling. Brilliant colors, brilliant movement, but feeling. A thing that makes the short. Whatever it is he does he does it well. I want to do it. I have too many ideas. I need more equipment. I need to know I can do it before I get more equipment. Dissecting the editing of his films. It goes on, it goes on.
I'm pedaling like a lunatic, oblivious to anything around me, but obviously not or I would have collided with something by now, splayed on the ground, spandex rips and skin pieces everywhere.

Mental note 'check fuel in car' — out of nowhere.
Check fuel becomes service station (we call them that here - you think gas station), service station becomes pump jockey, but there's no such thing as personalized service anymore, operated from the comfort of a security booth, console operator the job advertisements say.

I did it. I wanted to try this thing out. Every Saturday night I would do an afternoon shift at a place very close to the center of the city, pumps of petrol, pumps of LPG for the cabs. The place was owned by a cab company I was fleet manager of. They didn't think it 'fitting' that I be seen operating a service station. I did. Did it for a year. Cool job. Actually a really cool job. They come to you, give you money and that's about all you have to do. Anything needs fixing on a car—'hey, don't bother me with it, I'm just the console operator'.

Check fuel in the car gets me an instant rerun of a year of my Saturdays, and a fond feeling for a very odd job. Should I maybe be doing that part time? How did we get to possible part time jobs?

And it goes on, lap after lap, the same circuit—something obsessives do well—same line into corners, same line out. Minimum variation. This odd place that exists, disappearing as I figure I need some hydration. Present time mind comes back and offers to work out when is a good time to be doing that.

What I want to know is where is that place, where do all the thoughts come from?

You can see why I put this on a 'more' option.