9 November '07

Fox News—which, as with most dogs, I cannot tell whether they are genuinely stupid or are so intelligent that they can pretend to be stupid to avoid games of ‘fetch’, or in this case serious reportage—has a weather segment in which a gushing man told us that snow may be on its way this weekend. Indeed, the week has demanded gloves and scarves, jackets and jerseys, socks pulled all the way up. The white noise of the air-conditioner in my window has been replaced by a somewhat unnerving sound of metal-on-metal coming from the pipe in the corner of my room that provides heat (New York apartments are almost uniformly heated by steam that is pumped from underground pipes into a machine in the basement of each building. That machine, in turn, pumps the steam through pipes and radiators to warm individual units. Residents—in my building at least—have no control over when and to what degree the steam is pumped, so that the temperature of rooms can reach that of the tropics (as I was writing this transmission earlier, my computer rolled its eyes, went blank and attempted suicide. On inspection, the steel connectors at the back were hot enough to glow in the dark). Indeed, the only way to regulate the heat is to open a window. The steam that feeds the machine that pumps the heat that makes Ben warm is, however, free and unlike New Zealand’s chest-freezer houses it is deep Autumn and I am in a tee-shirt). The sounds emanating from that pipe, which is presumably connected by some intricate lattice of similar pipes to the basement, could, given the sound-conductive quality of steel, have its origin anywhere along said lattice. Thus I am powerless to stop the tinks and dings and therefore, as with other background noise—neighbours, computer fan, and the countless humming electronic fields—it shall be evicted from consciousness.

More than usual last seven days have been a haze of sleep, coffee, irregular meals, subway stops, the Columbia library, late-night treks home, red wine, whiskey and so it continues, except now it is sessions in front of the computer that punctuate. Sessions writing essays and forever trying to restrict myself to language that is orderly, direct and unequivocal. There is a skill to it, yes, but the skill is nuanced and uninteresting. I am bolted to my chair. I read, then type, then read, then edit. Thus, like the machine in the basement that receives steam and pumps heat, more often than not, writing essays breeds a kind of resigned stupor, an automatic response to a mechanical call.

On that note, I shall return to the essay, less I get away from myself. To substitute for the second-half of this transmission I have attached a photo of the Statue of Liberty and a Helicopter. Make of it what you will—I have my own ideas.