Tangerine

I never thought walking would be so frustrating. My bike is in the shop for a general overhaul (you know it's time for that when the mechanic tells you they have to weld the frame) and the notion of walking somewhere is so goddamn irksome. Moving your legs through this hot, sweaty soup, when I could be doing the same, pumping at least six times as fast, wasting less time. That and the fact that I always get into this ponderously meditative mood while cycling which walking never evokes.

Last week's been a pain, having to readjust to the daily grind, that and the fact that (obviously), you're gone for a week and there is a gynormous change in procedures of which you know zip-squat about. La-di-fracking-da.

On a side note, when (dear Reader) you want to meet with me, informing me beforehand (as in a few days beforhand, not few hours) isn't a notion as out of the ballpark as you'd think. Really. Cause, yeah, I go to IKEA to take a stroll and eat the 1pln ice-cream. You know, this is my idea of fun. Like support groups, or soap-making. And while you're at it, telling me that you're sitting somewhere with two other people avec heavy luggage makes all the difference. Not complaining, just, you know, for future reference.

I missed the wedding, not that I give much crap about that anyway. For one, 'till the end I didn't exactly know when I'd be back. Or, for that matter, how jetlagged/tired I'd be. And as I found out I was something fierce in both respects. By the way, Ze Germans kicked ass. The Narita-bought bag of goodies came from FRAport via DHL on Tuesday morning. Kudos to Ordnung indeed.

Another thing is I've never been fond much of the whole notion since I got the invitation (which I had to decline later anyway). We've barely seen each other at all the last five-six years and I get invited? Our friend status went out the window due to malnutrition eons ago, last couple of times we saw each other was mostly due to the band playing in Poz. Yeah, I know, I'm not exactly the epitome of gregarious, but nevertheless, I don't know, should I call this chutzpah, or just plain old obliviousness on their end. We're acquaintances now, at best. Or maybe I just don't give a rat's ass how they live their life and what they do - since, well, we went our separate ways and it seems to me just flogging a dead horse?

But enough of this brooding bs. It's hot, with that smoldering, summer heat scorching everything under the sun and making the evening all the more enjoyable, grateful that you've survived another day permeated by a mixture melting blacktop, exhaust fumes and the odd breeze ("Inferno by Poznan pour homme"). Then cometh the eve and one can almost imagine the metal shreaking as it contracts with decreasing temperature, I sit on the parapet in the kitchen, watching the greenery outside painted in perfect chiaroscuro. Smoking a cigarette, pulling on a cold one while fresh wafts of air sculpt the rising smoke into fractal patterns and thinking, ultimately, that, although there are no nukes, I'd not mind keeping this moment frozen forever.