Chronicles of Dis-Infection [2011_Aug • • • New Day’s Nomological ATP Orgy]


It is the next day and, fortunately, here I am again, writing again. Extending my self yet further. The truth is that these are my last halcyon days [provisionally I do hope] in a while. For ten months I now have dabbled in the art of being and becoming myself, passing my days in sport, washing dishes, reading, writing applications, running [which is sport separate from the other sports] and reading. These days have been most delightful though, as could be expected, I could have been much more productive. DaVinci’s allegedly final words apply. At any rate, 10 months are a long time, long enough to become estrange from regular working society, long enough to become slightly perplexed as well as amused by TV’s portrayal of mean everyday life and long enough to cultivate a thick liking for the privilege of freely allocating one’s time spent between necessity, literary endeavors and bodily ventures.

Ayh, ayh. This now is coming to a close, this golden era. On the morrow, I have rendezvous with the teacher of my teacher’s internship [Neuenkirch] and a fortnight hence, my M.A. studies in Secondary Education kick off in our city’s very own spanking new university [well-done high modernity but panoramically encumbered on all sides]. I am looking forward to it, the structure, the goal-centeredness, the prospect of work with youth and of safe employment, the re-activation of valuable skills and knowledge [especially French], the delving into didactics. Yet at the same time I do feel like I will definitely be re-absorbed into society’s body of surplus production: one year of full study and after that I begin serving as a secondary teacher in the canton’s employ. A neat arrangement, purposeful, fulfilling, ethically impeccable, exactly what I wish to do at this point in life. And yet the anticipation of absorption gives me a slight feel of dis-ease: Will I manage to be a good citizen-cell again? Will the educational endocrine system consider my enzymic excretions to be appropriate? Will there be any auto-immune reactions to the viral powers of youth? Not fear here, just a slight sense that I must be engarde, that I must retain some of my artistic cytoskeleton.

But after all, yes, six years have come and gone since my career-wise irrelevant M.A. at U of CHI’s MAPSS in which I mundivagantly flitted from one position to another, from this city to that. And while I have become geographically established, so to write, it is now also time to finally fixate a professional ambition, a socio-pecuniary niche. I have done so in the past but only vaguely and they, the ambitions, ended up shipwrecked on the atolls of a punishing job market or unexpected interpersonal tempests. Now, for the first time in half a decade, there has come up the opportunity of something that could be called, at the risk of jinxing it, a long-term safe bet. Which also matches the profile of my personal interests, promises the possibility of a good pay and the even longer-term prospect of little-sweat cosmopolitan peregrination.  As the saying goes: what is there not to like? As facebook goes: like. Tomorrow is a new day indeed.

However, for the next few days I am still allowed the pleasure of staying up late and checking [irrelevant] ATP tennis tour results in the run-up to the 2011 US Open in Flushing Meadows. I always watch the little pixilated clips and wistfully wish that Mr D. Wallace were still around to produce choice insights on certain up-and-coming young’uns as well as the development of the sport as a whole. Though I do believe that Badminton has a certain psychotic kinetic vigor [Lee Chong-Wei vs Lin Dan] that will never ever be matched by Tennis; which counters this deficit by certain moments of supra-human elegance, mostly presented courtesy of Nadal, Fed and the Djoker. Which this moniker has a certain unpalatable derogatory feel to it, despite the certainly harmless intentions at its genesis.

 

Anyway, I’ve just now been browsing ASFTINDA and a sentence has leaped out at me: “By the way, if you’re interested, the ATP Tour updates and publishes its world ranking weekly, and the rankings constitute a nomological orgy that makes for truly first-rate bathroom reading.” [Though who reads in the bathroom and why has always been a mystery to me. Even number two doesn’t occupy more than three or four minutes, which doesn’t warrant the effort of picking up a mag, much less delving into lit.] Item, adapted for the present purpose we wind up with the following:

Soderling R. – the blonde hulk from Sweden, if there were a “n” more in the name it would do his physical appearance some justice, from a german-speaking perspective

Stanislas Wawrinka – as a Swiss person one has heard the name a gazillion times and seen his vexed face maybe equally as often but closing one’s eyes and slowly enunciating the polysyllabic mess one can recapture some of the conflicted wonderment upon first hearing this name

Troicki V. – this speaks for itself largely, other than pointing out that my father, once upon an unimaginable time in London, was accused of possibly being a Trotskyist, an accusation I never recall having heard leveled nowadays; also, this guy seems to have a hard time living up to his talent or potential or promise

Chela J. I. – …come on, the guy is named after the pincer of a crab, a nice analogy the common under-arm hypertrophy

Bogomolov Jr. – maybe I’m not familiar enough with Slavic culture but this one just seems made up, a mash-up of US Southern State vain claims to royal blood and an amusingly onomatopoeic [“bogom”, the word for the sound a bouncing ball makes] ancient name from beyond the Volga

Malisse Xavier – really? He doesn’t look particularly malevolent actually. That Austrian kid would be more of a candidate, and So[n]derling for that matter.

Kubot, L. – again, in German this means as much as “robotic cow”, ‘nuff said

I think I’ll reign in my derisory horses at this point, beginning to look like I have l’esprit de pretty-fucking cocher myself, put differently, a Themba Mabona in Switzerland hasn’t all that much dealing the trade of pointing out other people’s “funny” names other than as a belated, be-bittered rejection of all the stern multi-cultural injunctions he inhaled during his M.A studies in anthro. Looking back now across my futile years of putting this degree on the third page of my applications, I’m pretty damn certain the M.A stands for something crude like “my ass”.

 

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About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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