Print: Pause / Reading on the bus / Being a Lettrist etc

RTomens, 2018

9.10 am, on the 91 bus to Crouch End doing what nobody else is - namely - reading a book. Not that I consider such an act either particularly noble, rebellious or outrageous, only that, looking up from my copy of How German Is It by Walter Abish, of which I have only read 12 pages so far but from those alone am very impressed, I noted that most other occupants of the top deck were, of course, quite naturally, glued to their little screens. I almost said 'reading their little screens', but suspect that at least half would be partaking in that activity commonly known as 'zombie scrolling', which is not commonly known as that at all, since I just made up the expression.

Possessing only an ancient Nokia mobile phone which, although fairly 'smart', is stupid compared to newer ones and still remains smarter than me, I am not tempted and neither is it possible to join the rest of the Western world in their addiction. However, worryingly, I may soon be able to courtesy of an upgrade, insisted upon by Work, which believes them necessary, no doubt under the illusion that the workers all use them only for important matters of business when in fact they can be used for social media, unlike the Work laptops, on which blocks are in place to prevent idlers socialising instead of doing their jobs.

I only use my mobile to occasionally call Home and receive a call from either Home or a man who has had the wrong number for a couple of years and texts every Christmas to wish me and the family all the best. I really should reply this year, thanking him for the sentiment but informing him that I am not the person he thinks I am.

Aside from being an exception in my reading habits on buses I also go against the grain by writing in notepads, especially outside cafes. Sometimes, whilst doing so, I am not who I am but who I think I might be in another time. It's not even a fantasy, as such, but an imagining of Paris in, say, the 1940s, when, I believe, even if only as romantic thinking, writers would sit outside cafes on the Left Bank, making notes for novels in which characters grapples with, what else, existential angst. That or formulating essays on existence for newspapers and magazines. 

I may, however, be more suited to cafe/bar life of another kind, getting drunk with Jean-Michel Mension and the 'tribe' along with committing petty crimes, all as part of a proto-Lettrist gang of sorts. Whilst not being an 'easy' lifestyle, as such, it would have been easier than trying to write a novel.

I used to write novels, none of which were published. I was another kind of writer then. Today I prefer to communicate via this site and construct visuals, such as the one at the top of the page. It is coincidental that it should comprise of a book and text when I considered reading literature this morning on the bus. I made the piece a few days ago. But life has a habit of mirroring art, of catching up with creative activity somehow, doesn't it? It's as if, sometimes, the motor that drives a creation then dictates movement towards a correlation in life outside. More likely, of course, that once the senses are alerted to visual content they are more likely to notice connections with them in the world.