Headlong

Anyone who is a regular reader of this blog will no that I spend a considerable amount of my time trying to create the perfect conditions in which to write. It is absolutely mandatory that I have a pen (that is to say, the right pen), some paper, access to my notes in case of panic, a pleasing ambient temperature - let's say between seventeen and twenty-three degrees, the right surface on which to lean, a surface which can maintain itself at the right height from my pen nib without requiring my regular intervention, music pertinent to the mental state of the character and so on, ad finitum.

Yes, I know ad finitum is not really a word but I don't know what the opposite of ad infinitum would be. What I mean by this is that as much as it seems that I need many things to be in my writing headspace, it is not an infinite number of things and I find myself rushing towards a glorious opportunity.

Mostly I write on trains. I move around a lot for my job and I gather together these snippets of writing time to piece together as many glorious hours as may be found in the week. Of the available snippets, a large number of them may be found outside my writing zone and may be discarded. Sometimes these snippets may last several months. I will soon have a good amount of comfortable air-conditioned trains on which to write. I will have my leather bag, not my slippy nylon one, good pens and everything else I could possibly want. I am anxious with anticipation at the mere thought of it. Equally, like so many men, I find myself under pressure to perform.

I guess that I write in a Sir David Brailsford kind of way. Marginal gains. Everything I have been preparing has been leading me inexorably towards the ninth of August and this glorious opportunity to stake my claim.

I have been given every chance, I have neither stopped nor stinted in my preparation. This is my moment of destiny.

England Expects.

DR

P.S. This is only until something else falls of the wagon and breaks the whole damn system. Yet again.

They Say Good Things Come in Threes...

...and that the postman always rings twice.

They say that everyone is unique.

I have no idea where I'm going with this actually. Well, that's not quite true.

I realise that my last blog post was called Hot Hot Heat. Subsequent to its publication online, I realised that on the first of July 2009, I wrote a blogpost called, surprise surprise, Hot Hot Heat. Now, I am tempted to write a third one, the last blogpost in the trilogy perhaps, but I don't want to talk about that. (Saying that, then I could write prequels.) I have found the blue skies above Paris relentless. I am an introspective extrovert, hunting for a place and I vastly prefer the thoughtfulness of the grey sky and the bouncing hum of rain. Always have. Probably always will do. I find that the flat blueness grinds me down. It removes all texture from the sky. The grey clouds present possibility. A possibility that on the other side of the clouds lives an invisible man. In those clouds we find the minarets raised to house the souls of those killed in combat. If you listen carefully to the sound of the rain and you learn its language it gives you the power to speak to birds. The blue sky gives you Rayleigh Scattering and sunburn.

The blue sky can fuck off.

So I haven't been writing. This evening has clouded over, there is a chance of storms. Lo! I am writing again. I hope that when I go away on holiday I will have fluffy white clouds that drift over from time to time each one following Chief Whitecloud, leading his warriors to battle storm giants in the mountains in the south.

To that aim, I will be going on holiday to the UK for one week to say farewell to my brother and his girlfriend as they emigrate. I may well write on the train there and back. I will take my leather bag to make sure. The lure of non-slip will be to much to resist.

After that I have two weeks in the south of France without a very good internet connection. I will set up a link via my mobile so that I can work on Google docs. I will try to tweet and blog etc. Mostly though I will sit on the beach and wonder whether those clouds on the horizon contain the invisible man. Until they blow over the land I will know he hasn't finished his fishing trip and that I remain under the blue millstone.

DR

P.S. For those who have stumbled onto my blog and want to know more, this is a good place to learn about Rayleigh Scattering

Hot Hot Heat

This is not a post to extol the virtues of the Miami Heat. Despite LeBron James' return to championship winning form this is not about him. Nor is it about Dwayne Wade. Don't get me wrong, I like basketball and can still name the great Chicago Bulls starting line-up from the multiple title wining era. (Man that era was great. Jordan, Magic, Gary Payton, Stockton and Malone. *sniff, getting misty-eyed here*)

Even though I like basketball, this is still not about the Miami Heat, (the Spurs were damned close though). 

This is not about Death Valley and wildfires in California. It could be but it isn't about Mr Heat Mechanical Inc. in the Toronto Area. (Go here for more information and reviews)

No no no no no.

This is about summer and its final and dramatic arrival in Paris, neatly coinciding with the Tour de France. 

On a side note, I love the Tour de France. and is the reason that I haven't been writing. I have been obsessed, consumed and delirious with Tour de France fever. I am every year. I love it. I go almost every year to the Champs Elysees to watch the champagne stage. They go faster than italics. They really do go quite incredibly quickly. Naturally, they slow down for corners but they can hold an average speed of 55kmh through a TT stage. That means more than 60kmh on the flat. On the TTT, Team Sky were shown going at about 65kmh. If you are not obsessed by le Tour like I am, you should be. On the 14th July, the remaining riders will climb the Mont Ventoux. It will be Bastille Day, (the French just call it Fête Nationale) all the French riders will be going bonkers to win as there is nothing more glorious than winning atop a mountain, nothing more worthy than doing in the Tour de France and worth dying for to do that on the 14th July. The fact that the Mont Ventoux is iconic just adds to the insanity. Well, actually what adds most to the sanity is that on a cold, windy, bald headed mountain in the middle of nowhere, 500,000 spectators will line the road to cheer the cyclists on. If you only watch one day of the tour, watch that one. (If any/all of that went over your head, try this)

I digress. 

I have been writing and I have finished another couple of chapters but once again I have ground to a halt. It's the heat. I don't deal well with heat, even on the best of occasions. The fact that I write on crowded trains, each one spending the day pushing its metal and glass form through the hatred of the sun, means that I write in a furnace. The sweat drips off my brow and onto my page and I can't bear it. So I have stopped writing again. I will try again tomorrow morning. Perhaps the train will not have heated up too much as it will be early in the morning. I doubt it. Nevertheless, I shall try. There are so many things that rip me from my writing bubble. I wish I could write gently and fluidly. I can't, it's like kicking myself in the armpit every other step. Monty Python would be proud.

Yours, sweatily 

DR

P.S. I haven't changed my bag. This is not the best of circumstances I know but the bag is required for my day job. I don't know what to do about it. Answers on a postcard.