ecessity, these previous two don’t really hold any charm for me.The third type is what I want to talk about. Think about any time that you’ve been compelled to walk. I mean that if you didn’t get up, get out, and strike the pavement it would constitute a primal, unspeakable loss… As if your very being, situated in that exact time and space, would be nullified. Sure, you could sleep that night and wake up the next day fine, but that one lost opportunity would be like a void in the universal continuity… I get wound up a lot. I think that runners must build up a store of energy that they channel into a sustained release; the reason for doing this no doubt being the precious endorphins reaped. I also suspect that some people I know walk when they are angry or frustrated; they rush violently against the air hoping that the pain will wick away from them like the tongues of a dying flame. I don’t mean that they are flying madly through the streets cursing the world. I mean that if you could open that oft mentioned third eye of yours, you would see that their soul would be clinging to them like the ragged pinions of a flag buffeted and torn by a terrible wind. I get wound up in a different way. It almost invariably happens at night. And unlike the previous examples, it is a reaction to an absence. I mean that it’s not something that I store like joules in muscle tissue or swallowed disappointments. I’m risking asymptotic insanity to try and describe it but, well… Let’s say I’m like one of those old grandfather clocks. Except that it’s the hand of absence that turns the crank (does absence have hands?). So I am stalking about my apartment probably searching for a missing book that I’ve been telling myself I want to read; I don’t actually intend to start reading it but it just wouldn’t do for it to be lost; and in the midst of this train of thought I catch the mere suggestion of a girl’s voice outside of my window and I stop. And the crank clicks. Or I am eating my favorite Japanese curry and watching the Cosby Show; all of a sudden the flavor is stricken from the last bite I took, simply from savoring it too much. I can taste it but it’s like all the joy has been emptied from it. Click. Or I am skyping my best friend over the internet; I can understand everything he says but the occasional flutter in the line’s integrity pokes little holes in the sound. Click.
The clicks accumulate imperceptibly and then one night, when the intrusive ripples of the day die down and I’m left treading the silent black waters of my singularity, a ring is sounded. Not loudly, but resolutely. Then I go upstairs and put on some jeans, a white collared shirt or a hoodie, my black brushed wool pea, and a cap. I go downstairs and slip on some comfy loafs, adjust my earphones, and upon stepping out into the cool clarity of the night air, I press play.
At first my steps are over anxious. Then the beat disciplines me. A good drum cadence reflects a harmony of movement and your legs tell you what that is. The base rhythms determine the gait. The little syncopations, brushes, and stutters provide momentum. And a throbbing bass-line provides context, like trees rushing past your car window to show you how fast you’re going. Lastly, the melodic layers hold your consciousness to the process. You are walking, and from the dead ticker-tape transcriptions that were your thoughts burst images of perfect color, intensity and proportion. The whole thing could last fifteen minutes or hours, but you are never released from your reverie to be conscious of it until it’s over. And while your face picks up oranges from the street lights and the glow of windows you feel strange and lonely and beautiful, like you are stepping through people’s dreams…
(ps. maybe I'm listening to this:
J. J. Baylon
