Youth?

why now? why the perpetual question in italics? perhaps the birthday season is upon me, and i'm even par for the front nine at Midland, I'm awash in the ponds of vainglorious delights that survive another year, in suffering in that way that most of us north americans would never admit too, in having nothing and everything at hand, the simultaneity of this wealthy and unwarranted paradox. a tree, a stretch of green grass, some fallen leaves, and an SUV, capiche?

so that book I mentioned in my last entry is by J.M. Coetzee, it was okay, okay --- maybe it was a little better than okay but it wasn't noble or novel that's for pretty sure. anyway, i've moved on to a Czech writer named Ivan Klima, and I must admit a lot more attachment to the characters' sentiments in this No Angels or Saints, even though they don't work for IBM or want to be famous poets. I think there is something in the slavic ethic that allures me... inures me? eludes me? denudes me? confuses me? J.

still injured, but should be able to run by saturday. still writing... see ;~]

WEAKNESS

my achilles heal is my achilles heal,
it stings in the morning and hurts when I run,
after twenty minutes the pain disappears,
or perhaps it migrates to another part of my body,


a work in progress - of course, like any marathon...
cheers, mika

ah ---- ha, apples and orang-atangs

no, not the skin of the vertebrate that reminds one of a coconut, or those pesky pen-tanger teenagers good at marshy volleyball and late night poker runs... but the elements of daytime that make one remember what brought them to wherever they are. Speaking of which, I haven't blogged much lately, sometimes, amid the foul mood of this cubicle I say why 'blogger', but then I'm not so crusty and disheartening all the time (ain't that right Sara?). And truthfully I've been too busy here (doing endless amounts of piddly shit) and I've been swimming, water-running (injured achillees), some cycling and lots of circuit-ry ---- good for the abs and the core.

I've also been reading a book called Youth by *******, it's about a South African in London (early 60's) who wants to be a poet but isn't very good, he says, (okay so that doesn't really relate to me), worst of all he gets a job with IBM... dull, dark, hardened IBM ---- how about that for coincidence... he also has a series of meaningless (pathetic, he says) affairs... I can't decide if I like the writing or not, parts of it are pretty dry but I'm still reading and it's only 170 pages so I suppose it won't be long until the end.

that's all from the pendulum that is downtown toronto - live well, Mika