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Why do I neglect my writing ambitions? I should be writing all day, every day, sticking to it with the energy of a crystal meth binger. Usually I have a rule about writing right after reading something – in this case On the Road by Kerouac – but a certain kind of manic energy has overtaken me after reading it, the Shroud of Dean Moriarty stalking me across the prairie; or something of that sort. Incredibly, I feel energetic after simply having read it; while reading I sometimes just had to get up and walk for the sheer inspiration of it, not able to sit still any longer. I will read more Beat literature and hope it spurs the restlessness that some already say I have in me.
Restless energies could take it no more; movement was required and stopping quickly by my room to get my photo bag I ran off into the misty Moss evening simply because someting needed doing. Fresh air, factory noises and a vague notion to find the police station (I had to get my passport renewed sometime within the next month) spurred me on along with the desire do something completely out of the ordinary. Walking briskly past the school I was suddenly overcome by an amazing image: the floodgates had opened and the dam was pouring water in torrents, millions of gallons streaming out in golden waves and splashing foaming upwards at they hit the black rock bottom. The noise was not a deafening but a soothing roar, a benevolent white noise that shut out all other noise; I could not even hear the loud, clicking shutter of my cheap camera as I snapped picture after picture of the amazing gravity-defying explosions of water. For a while I just sat mesmerized, staring at the water doing its unpredictable dances. Since, I followed the river down, across the bridge and came to the old breweries. From one a walkway extended, hovering preciptiously over the yawning waters. Part of the platform had nearly given out but I crossed it regardless in fearless excitement, knowing the opportunities for pictures on the other side. Hugging the wall behind it, with the neck strap of my camera wrapped around my wrist, I took some more exposures of the exuberant water. That they should be open on this night in particular! I was certainly having a streak of luck. Possibilties abounded and I moved further, leaping onwards eager to see what was next.
An entirely new street; upwards of where I thought I would find the police station, rows and rows of old wooden houses stretched forward into the mist, a faint breeze carrying upwards to me the smell of fresh pastry – strange at eleven o’clock in this small city. A window further down the street revealed to me a pair of pastry chefs hard at work, maybe laboring on an early morning delivery. For once at least there was a smell to savor. Beyond this I found a building that appeared to be my goal; however, across the street was a some kind of roof terrace I had never seen before! I quickly went over and found that it belonged to a pianobar I had been to a few times before. A railing led downstairs, and I approached it kind of carefully for some reason, peeking over the railings. To my great horror I saw a head with a cap on, two hands raised in the air, the figure just standing there frozen. Terrified for a moment that I had disturbed the home of some territorial hobo – there was a lot of trash here – I stopped in my tracks, preparing to run for just long enough to see that it was merely a statue, of Santa Claus no less, probably kept here all through the non-December season. Glad no one was witness to my jump at this spirit of Christmas past, I moved on to take more photos.
The building across the streets was indeed the police station, and now I was pretty certain I would remember the way. Picturesque though it was with its fluorescent lights and glass panes, I decided not to photograph it as officers generally don’t take too kindly to coated strangers taking pictures of the police station late at night. Behind the building, though, lay the highway, and I took some long exposures of the cars whizzing by on the E18. Further beyond lay an underpass going beneath this very road, where there was some very interesting grafitti. Though the bridge the underpass connects to crosses a river, there was still pieces on every pylon; true dedication. The dark loomed beyond, actually just a cross country running track but at night it looked awfully menacing. I pressed on, found a slit through a fence where the light from the sports centre shines through, took some pictures, but eventually decided to go back before everything fell apart, running most of the way.
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