Like a sports commentator. He looked like a sports commentator. He felt like a sports commentator.
To commentate, to speak continouously, rapidly without stopping to fill up the airwaves with words, whatever they were. To be so close to parody but to step back into the human form. To be so with the words, to have them arrive and be spoken before thought almost. Like channelling the noisy neighbour. Oh fuck now I’m thinking like I’m a character in literarcy fiction. Fuck that. His knew his own voice like it sounded on the radio, unnatually loud, unnaturally compressed and punchy. Excellent in a bar telling a story. A raconteur with asbergers, uncannily rounding out every sentence with artifical knowingness.
In dreams he wasn’t all words, he wasn’t all sound. He dreamt in silent, vivid, color films. Images of summer. Pebbles on the beach the waves washing gently, the musky summer smells, the quality of sunlight. Of foood, the bitterness of raddiccio washed with a fine vinegar and fragrant oil. In dreams he inhabited all these senses, quietly observing saying nothing. He grasped for this richness, trying to capture and keep these senses alive, to nurture them like
And then, every time, just when the quality of his senses began to overwhelm, he would wake suddenly, sullenly, automatically mumbling about the Romanian weightlifter, the quality of the clean and jerk and It was gold for Romania.
He turned on the radio.
This from a writing exercise taking ten words and using them to create a character:
Clean and jerk