On the look out

When I'm on the train, looking out from the viewing deck, I like to imagine what I might look like to a stationary onlooker within the long streaks of colour that blur all objects outside. My view is framed by a square window, and while the onlooker's is framed by the train, if we were to think about each of our positions, yet subtract the train, the onlooker would appear lost in my all encompassing torrent of livid wind and dizzying colour rushing by (albeit from frontal view the effect might be one of a slow and placid approach). I however, would seem to be a man sitting in a chair, drifting endlessly through empty space.

Starry Messenger - Sidereus nuncius

Waking up tired is a strange sensation. One would assume that upon going to sleep the body would naturally relax, the brain would perform its subsequent functions, and one would eventually drift off. This is not I, quite the opposite actually. Climbing into the warm comfort of a fortress wherein I, its sole proprietor the majority of the time should feel at home, creates a strange dilemma for me. To feel at home is to feel comfortable, safe, and relaxed in an environment that is recognizable and familiar, one in which the occupant can thrive in or retire into. It is not as if I don't attribute these characteristics to my bed, at times I most certainly do thrive there, it is just the notion of retiring, giving myself over to the beast, that I find troubling. When it is time to quit the day and embrace the starry sky, whether it is in the arms of a lover, alone or some stage in-between, I am compelled by thought to stay lucid and present. When joined by a companion, sleep becomes an even greater issue, as lying awake beside someone is very disconcerting for both her and I. She drifts off while I remain, the subject has been exhausted.

Elapsed, the height of pretension.

League of American Wheelmen

When I determined to found the League of American Wheelmen two years ago, I did so with the ideal in mind that every American should have not only a bicycle, but an education in the new art of bicycling and the benefits that accompany it: fitness, transportation and enjoyment. It has been my privilege to see this association grow out of nothing and it is a testament to man's ingenuity; how man receives but iron and rubber from the Earth and somehow, through his imagination, a wheel and tire come about - a masterful union indeed. It is my dream that the bright young Americans of today should be the greatest educated generation yet! Today, wheelmen, ride with the knowledge that you are now in control. Race forth with the vigor that brought forth the very wheels you now turn, that carry you. That is my challenge to you. Best of luck!

- Kirk Munroe addressing the League of American Wheelmen before the first American bicycle race, May 24, 1878, Boston, Massachusetts.

I recieve mail; therefore I am.

The role of the mailman is alarmingly underplayed in relation to the value of service he offers to such an auspicious yet thankless society. Already about and conducting his business hours before the most esteemed of men have awoken from their luxurious slumbers, this invisible agent of information is with a light heart dispatching the paltry dialogues of indolent and entitled individuals, which cannot wait until a later time in the day, for nothing pleases the average person more than opening the mailbox shortly after waking and discovering that someone has cared to relay their sentiments and magically succeeded! What would there be to read otherwise? The newspapers are far too impersonal. The mailman of course is above all this. He knows the world as gathered from his own perspective and therefore needs not be bothered by someone else's feeble attempts at imparting knowledge. He is like a ghost, up at dawn and ahead of the world, reveling in his own narrow window of silence, until all is muddled by the noise of envelopes opening and the outflow of their contents, signifying a job well done and a withdraw from the world until tomorrow. He executes his influence merely out of duty, but lives with the mirth that accompanies the dignity of not needing to be reminded. His pursuits are surely of a noble nature.

The Great Blondin

Jean Francois Gravelot, or as he called himself, "The Great Blondin," arrived in Niagara in 1858 after fleeing his native France under mysterious circumstances. He soon became obsessed with the idea of crossing the Falls by way of tightrope. On June 30, 1859, after extensive training he finally accomplished his goal, walking across a 1,100 foot long and 3 inch in diameter manila rope stretched from Niagara, New York to Oakes Garden, Ontario. Using nothing to support himself but a 30 foot pole for balance, he walked across Niagara Falls in twenty minutes. He crossed it eight more times that summer, culminating on August 14, when he accomplished the act while simultaneously carrying his manager, Harry Colcord, on his back. Bravo!

Plight of the lumberjack

One would not be altogether incorrect to consider the pursuits of the modern lumberjack futile. The lumberjack cuts down trees, which are then sent to a factory where they are stripped of their bark, condensed to a pulp and bleached white, from which we derive paper. If all goes accordingly, a person of esteem is then relied upon, if he may be so generous, to scribble some particular marks on the paper, as a reward to the grateful lumberjack for his hard work. Alas, the refined tree remnants make a full circle and return to the hands of the lumberjack, who goes on with this routine without realizing the seemingly absurd irony of it all.

One Day You'll Love Me

A modern tale of the vicious lust for love, the maudlin and the beautiful.
Dreams of walking in a solemn procession, for the sake of boredom, oh the things you'll say. The dust on the record, Debussy's Suite Bergamasque, cracks and seems to snap back at me. The acrid smell of dust which had accumulated over time on the album sleeve irritates my eyes. I resolve, I fuck with the rotations per minute for the sake of boredom, oh the things i'll do. It's raining outside, but it's sunny inside and the fridge stays cold amidst the warmth. I woke up early, why? To spend time with John and Evelyn, although I doubt the sincerity of their words. Cynical, I doubt it. Existential, probably. Vices, definitely.

A Lonely Man and His Watch

A day was nothing special. It came and went without any trace of evidence that it ever happened, apart from the successive number and its corresponding name on the calendar that seemingly distinguished itself. The accumulation implied a sense of direction that was absent. Time was something that bothered him, because it made him conscious of the bad days he wasted and the good days that evaporated so hastily. It often made participating in ordinarily enjoyable things difficult, for there was always the fear that loomed of its inevitable dissipation, and the ensuing interval spent conjuring the next step in a continuum.

At The Helm

Well here we are, intrepid boatmen, at the the great in-between. The austerity endured thus far by each and every one of us in this valiant excursion is worth nothing short of the noblest praise. However I can no longer prevent myself from articulating the notion that troubles my very core, which doubtless you are already conscious of. It is, ironically, my own dauntless and absurd disposition that has allowed for this extraordinary task to be undertaken and I am forever in debt to all of you for your unremitting trust and assistance in my efforts. But friends, I fear our journey has come to its final hour. The unmerciful elements of the North Sea have claimed a great toll on many of our crew, while the rest of us are still at a great risk of experiencing the effects of untreatable ailment, of which, as i am well acquainted, are accompanied by derangement. As my latest forecast proves to unfold, it is my duty as your captain and fellow brother, to abort in my selfish explorative pursuits and prepare for the following deluge that finds such amusement in our toils. Tired and dispirited I no longer intend to grapple with the tempest. It may swallow us at its own will, resolving to put us out of our despair. Do not try to convince me of your courage, for I am fully aware of it, and it provides me some solace in this hour of darkness, but let me state with all honesty that it has been a privilege to work along side men of such fortitude. Should we survive, this malediction will prove to be another of life's lessons instructing us to reassess our hasty impulses that lead us astray, which so often are at the helm. However there is an ever-present display of defeat as evidenced by your countenances. Let us now find our final uncharted resting place in the shadows of the sea.

Thus, a wheel has been turned.

Captain Dunker Springfield of the HMS Hogwell, moments before capsized