progresses into a quagmire of nothingness, our world will become increasingly more violent. It is an impulse that controls us. It is an impulse we cannot ignore.
“But I don’t want to talk about impulse just yet …”
“No?”
“No … I want to talk about Jonathan Richman …”
“Who?”
“He is a musician …
The Modern Lovers
… He wrote what is considered to be the first ever modern punk record …”
“Oh, what was it called?”
“
Roadrunner
. It’s probably my favourite song of all time. Do you have a favourite song?”
“Not really …”
“I was …”
“What?”
“I was listening to it when …”
“When what?”
“When I hit him …”
“But why are you telling me all this?” Why? Why me? What’s the point in telling me all this in such detail? What’s the point?”
“…”
“Well? Why? What’s the point in telling me all this?
“…”
“…”
“Music is important … It is integral to our understanding of things.”
“
Things
?”
“Yes. Things. Stuff.
Everything
.”
“Oh.”
“That song …
Roadrunner
… has stuck with me for a long time. I just knew that it would be around on such an important day.”
“Why?”
“It had to be …”
“But, I don’t understand …”
“I’ve told you before, you don’t have to
understand
. There’s nothing
to
understand …”
“We’re going around in circles …”
“That’s not a concern of mine. But just to listen to that song as you’re hurtling down an open road. Such an amazing feeling … Really. It’s originally about route 128 in Boston, a circular like the M25, although, it’s not exactly circular. Travelling north or south is just the same as travelling round and round in circles anyway, isn’t it? Anyway, it is Richman’s car journey I’m interested in, the journey he undertakes throughout each version of the song …
the same song
… There are many versions of it.”
“There’s more than one version?”
“There are many versions. All are a homage to the turnpike, the industrial park, the North Shore, the South Shore, the Prudential Tower, the Sheraton Tower, the everyday nothingness of the peripheries of Boston, noting each as he passes them by over and over and over again. I’ve read about the excitement he used to feel speeding over the hill, catching sight for the first time that day of the radio towers in the distance. He’d see beauty in these humdrum things … I used to drive listening to him, I used to lookfor the same things, the same type of beauty he did … It was everywhere I looked … I see that, too,
I do
, that same beauty in things … the ordinary things.”
“I know you do …”
It seemed as if we were melting into each other, her scent enveloping me, soaking into me like never before. I wanted to say so much to her; I wanted to do so many things with her; with no one else. I wanted nothing else to exist, so we could get up and walk somewhere together: a pub, a café, a park, even a gallery. Anywhere. I wanted to do something.
But I couldn’t.
I was truly spellbound.
I started to think about those teenagers who attacked me, the Pack Crew. I wondered what they might have been doing at that precise moment. My body was aching all over because of them. They had acted on that same impulse. They had chosen to harm me, to hurt me for no other reason: boredom. They were bored. They always would be. They are never ending.
I wondered to myself what they would do with themselves if only they knew what I did: I hoped it would be nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
“You’re thinking about why I hit him, aren’t you?”
“No … I’m thinking about something else … Those …”
“I hit him because I knew it would feel good … I was hypnotised … I truly was. I knew what I had to do … I just knew.”
“How can it
feel good
? How can something like that
feel good
?”
“You can’t imagine how
“But I don’t want to talk about impulse just yet …”
“No?”
“No … I want to talk about Jonathan Richman …”
“Who?”
“He is a musician …
The Modern Lovers
… He wrote what is considered to be the first ever modern punk record …”
“Oh, what was it called?”
“
Roadrunner
. It’s probably my favourite song of all time. Do you have a favourite song?”
“Not really …”
“I was …”
“What?”
“I was listening to it when …”
“When what?”
“When I hit him …”
“But why are you telling me all this?” Why? Why me? What’s the point in telling me all this in such detail? What’s the point?”
“…”
“Well? Why? What’s the point in telling me all this?
“…”
“…”
“Music is important … It is integral to our understanding of things.”
“
Things
?”
“Yes. Things. Stuff.
Everything
.”
“Oh.”
“That song …
Roadrunner
… has stuck with me for a long time. I just knew that it would be around on such an important day.”
“Why?”
“It had to be …”
“But, I don’t understand …”
“I’ve told you before, you don’t have to
understand
. There’s nothing
to
understand …”
“We’re going around in circles …”
“That’s not a concern of mine. But just to listen to that song as you’re hurtling down an open road. Such an amazing feeling … Really. It’s originally about route 128 in Boston, a circular like the M25, although, it’s not exactly circular. Travelling north or south is just the same as travelling round and round in circles anyway, isn’t it? Anyway, it is Richman’s car journey I’m interested in, the journey he undertakes throughout each version of the song …
the same song
… There are many versions of it.”
“There’s more than one version?”
“There are many versions. All are a homage to the turnpike, the industrial park, the North Shore, the South Shore, the Prudential Tower, the Sheraton Tower, the everyday nothingness of the peripheries of Boston, noting each as he passes them by over and over and over again. I’ve read about the excitement he used to feel speeding over the hill, catching sight for the first time that day of the radio towers in the distance. He’d see beauty in these humdrum things … I used to drive listening to him, I used to lookfor the same things, the same type of beauty he did … It was everywhere I looked … I see that, too,
I do
, that same beauty in things … the ordinary things.”
“I know you do …”
It seemed as if we were melting into each other, her scent enveloping me, soaking into me like never before. I wanted to say so much to her; I wanted to do so many things with her; with no one else. I wanted nothing else to exist, so we could get up and walk somewhere together: a pub, a café, a park, even a gallery. Anywhere. I wanted to do something.
But I couldn’t.
I was truly spellbound.
I started to think about those teenagers who attacked me, the Pack Crew. I wondered what they might have been doing at that precise moment. My body was aching all over because of them. They had acted on that same impulse. They had chosen to harm me, to hurt me for no other reason: boredom. They were bored. They always would be. They are never ending.
I wondered to myself what they would do with themselves if only they knew what I did: I hoped it would be nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
“You’re thinking about why I hit him, aren’t you?”
“No … I’m thinking about something else … Those …”
“I hit him because I knew it would feel good … I was hypnotised … I truly was. I knew what I had to do … I just knew.”
“How can it
feel good
? How can something like that
feel good
?”
“You can’t imagine how
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