There’s something about the heat that maddens people, addles the mind and makes mischief. Moron that in a bit.
Oh, the joys of finishing a draft. Done work, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways(*). I struggle to get past zero. Which isn’t to say there’s no happiness at having passed a millstone. There is. But it’s a ring inside a coffee cup. You don’t stare at it reminiscing about what you’ve drunk; you go brew some more.
But I’m on holiday: work-pause. So I drop the control rods into my reactor and wait for things to cool. The occasional neutron of future projects pops in, causes a little excitement-fission, passes. I mull the next stages of the novel: the advanced reader copies, the professional editing, the marketing …
I re-check that all the control rods are down.
Two days later, I’ve settled enough to be bored. The Plan was to up sticks and travel somewhere beachier, but The Mathematician’s reactor is still in full swing (a coding/modelling thing) so I decide to head outside on my tod(**) for a walk in the sun. My face melts when I step outside. Unbeknownst to me, the city has caught fire. It blazes, bright behind sunglasses. The ground crunches like overcooked biscuits as I walk and the air smells burnt (though it could be my skin).
Seems we’ve got us one o’ those snazzy little heatwaves here in Europe. I later read that Spain and Greece actually are on fire, and parts of Germany are kindling-brown. I head for respite somewhere leafy, green, and high: Mount Focke.
Ah, the mountain, pretty much the highest point in Leipzig. One hundred and fifty-five metres of loftiness and brick. You see, the “mountain”(***) is pretty much a monstrous heap of rubble dressed in turf and trees. Most major German cities have one, having received a generous donation of military munitions during WWII under which houses and factories collapsed and, later, had to be cleared away. Hence the omnipresent Schutt- and Trümmerberge (debris hills and rubble mountains).
But they make for an engaging climb. I pass the split-bathtub benches by the entrance and make my way up the tarmac path. A couple of runners pass me heading downhill, deep in conversation and trailing sweatodorant. I settle in behind a dog-walking couple.
It’s cooler here. The ivy-spiralled trees arch over the path and meet in places, giving shade. Great Tits and Black Redstarts sing in the trees. The sound of traffic from Wundtstraße gets louder as I reach the west side of the hill, quietening again as I turn round north, east, south, on my way to the top.
The runners come back up and overtake me from behind. They’re silent.
I see something curious by the turn off to The Quick Way Down on the north side of the mountain(***): two women walking a rather eccentric dog. It has a way of walking that puts me in mind of a Parisian dandy. At times it trots, then stops, then slopes off to the side, sits and watches. Preens. Pounces. Such style, such poise!
It’s a cat. A cat in a harness doing whatever the f*ck it wants despite its owners’ protestations.
I’m as amused as the other walkers are be-.
The top of the mountain’s(***) a tonsure and I’m ready for sun when I reach it. The cyberpunk tattoo surprises me though. It glows neon red and yellow on the elbow of a young man sat on the eastern viewpoint bench, phone in one hand, fag dangling from the fingers of the other(+). I almost — almost — get my phone out to take a picture, but deciding it might be invading his privacy somewhat, I just stand nearby and stare.
It runs from his upper forearm to lower upper arm, is rectangular with a fuzzy neon double-outline, dual coloured. I expect to see text begin scrolling across it. In fact, that’s what I’m hoping for. How long was I indoors? Did I miss the cyber revolution? No. It’s the sun reflecting off of a brass commemoration plate on the backrest of the bench.
I shake my head. How disappointingly 2025.
I pass the two women again on the way back down. They behave like dog walkers: the leader barks a command to the handler to “Watch out”. The handler crouches, tightens the lead, watches me walk past. Apparently my reputation for animal attraction precedes me.
I smile. My smile says, “Not a dog.”
Back home, the bonkers continues on apace. I’ve been sent funds to back a Kickstarter campaign for an expansion to the rather nice Memento Mori TTRPG(++). My bank’s temporarily blocked it because of a suspicious reference.
“Let us know what “Mori” in reference “Memento Mori KS” refers to?”
(Why is there a question mark?)
I’m given the following options to chose from:
- A person’s name
- A business or organisation
- A vessel
- More than one person or business
- None of the above
I’m temped with 3, but chose 5 and am taken to another screen to write a small essay on why “Mori” doesn’t mean I’m being paid a (meagre) amount to off someone or fund a death-cult start up. The funds are soon released.
I hazard fewer and fewer people will be filling in the Reference box for bank transfers in the future, or simply opting to write “Money”.
The heatwave grinds on for three days. This translates to the following routine:
- Get up
- Open windows
- Make coffee
- Drink coffee
- Admire the sky
- Close the windows
- Close the curtains
I return to working on my book.
—
(*) Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
(**) German readers, no, this isn’t a lower-case death. (Though I have been known to ghost-write.)
(***) “Hill!” I hear thousands of angry Germans cry. Your objections are noted and ignored in service to wilful ignorance.
(+) Clearly not impressed with the view of the imposing Monument to the Battle of Nations in the distance.
(++) BackerKit, actually, not Kickstarter. TTRPG = tabletop role-playing game.
