Filler 6

Actually, I'm not that committed to writing an entry at all, but some misplaced sense of duty is compelling me to do it. I know that if I keep writing handwaving rubbish about nothing then what little point there is to WalkyTalky in the first place will evaporate, but somehow there's still that drive to keep throwing stuff out there, no matter what.

I seem to have developed several strategies to deal with this. First up (now pretty much done to death), write about having nothing to write about. Oh look, here I go again! But actually I expect I will get to some point eventually here, though admittedly I'm not sure what it will be, so I'm not counting this post as one of those. Of course, I've been wrong before.

Another is to write a photo album entry, which usually nudges me into having something to say -- and even if it doesn't, well, at least there'll be a picture or two to look at. And as it happens there's a picture sitting here on my hard drive waiting for me to write about, a fun picture of me dressed up in a truly ridiculous outfit that could easily be the basis for a glibly entertaining post and no-one would be any the wiser. And, really, that post needs to be written, because silly pictures and silly anecdotes are A Good Thing. But...

But.

The trouble is there's a rather daunting piece of history lurking in the background of that picture -- strictly speaking, it's holding the camera -- and even though it can't be seen, I'm all too aware that it's there, and so that glibly entertaining post just isn't going to happen. The picture will go up, sometime; and the anecdotes will be told; but it'll have to happen when I'm more able to deal with it, and have a lot more time at my disposal than is the case now.

My third strategy, lately, has been to post fiction. As explained earlier, I don't really write that stuff anymore, but I have assorted scraps and fragments on hand and they make for posting that is at least logistically easy, even if not always emotionally so. There are still several pieces pending in that strand, but of course I did that last night -- in case you were wondering -- so I can't really do it again so soon.

Which leaves talking about my day; this is a journal of sorts, after all. Naturally, things happened today, as they do every day, but that doesn't make them interesting, to me or anyone else. But look, this is getting pretty desperate, so let's see:

The big event of the day was actually something that didn't happen: trampolining was cancelled. A week without bouncing! How will I survive? (OK, I managed to sneak one dodgy front somersault off the trampette at Circus Space last night after swinging, but that's really not enough to count.)

The trampoline coach injured his knee at the weekend. Warrick (yes, that's the spelling) is a lovely guy, but can be a bit of a nutter sometimes. Very laddy. Lots of drinking and womanizing. Lots of hurling himself into the air with reckless abandon -- and sometimes hurling other people, including me. Doubles moves are strictly not allowed at the Y, but he does them from time to time anyway, and they're fun but also fucking terrifying.

He was the one who got me doing trapeze in the first place, as a ring-in one night when someone in his trapeze class was away. I was hooked; Warrick has since dropped out, though he insists he will return one day.

Anyway, he is injured; in slightly mysterious circumstances. He was moving to a new apartment this weekend, which I suppose is an activity conducive to injury; but his email mentions, in a slightly evasive way, doing somersaults while moving, conjuring up some very bizarre images indeed. As a result of which: no bouncing.

These arguably juvenile activities have really become an important (though small) part of my life. They are, of course, daft. They are also, I should point out, not easy. But mainly, they give you a different perspective on the world, on the experience of moving through space. I wouldn't go so far as to suggest they are enlightening, but they are certainly interesting. Also, it would seem, addictive.

Fortunately, this week, I was deprived of only one. Weeks when I have to miss out on both swinging and bouncing -- usually as a result of illness or injury on my part -- are bleak indeed. Withdrawal sets in and I become surly and depressed. Woe betide any motherfucker who crosses me at a time like that. Bears with sore heads have nothing on me.

So I really hope Warrick will be better next week. For the benefit of my workmates if nothing else.
Posted by matt at October 15, 2003 12:44 AM