Posted on Wednesday, 08/05/26.

Last (last) I’ve taken so long to post this that I should clarify this happened on July 11. Saturday I biked from my apartment in 北沢 to a man-made lake, 多摩湖, which borders the neighboring prefecture to the north. I chose the lake because the large map of Tokyo that hangs on my wall cuts off just beyond it This lake is not the western border of Tokyo prefecture, though passing it the land goes mountainous and rural, and that this is also Tokyo, just like the remote 小笠原群島（または無人島）, is pleasing to me., and because there is a nearly straight path (first 井の頭通り, and then a dedicated bike path with a circuitous name: 保谷狭山自然公園自転車道線) between the two. Abutting the dam of 多摩湖, which overlooks the town of 東村山, is an aging theme park (西武遊園地), which is known for its Godzilla dark ride, outdoor crystal-blue pool complex, and pastel ferris wheel. From the dam’s causeway I can see at least the drop tower, and hear some distorted music. The terminus of one of the branches of the　西武-owned train lines is named after the park, and I imagine the train company must either own the land or facilitate its amusements. A few exhausted families drag their sun-hatted children about, flip-flops clicking the blindingly white pavement.

Because I am a mediocre cyclist the ride, round trip around 33 miles, completed in half-overcast 87F weather, totally encompasses me. I am in thrall. At intervals I pull over to discard empty and buy new bottles of water or アクエリアス　ion drink. A beauty of the Japanese summer is found, in part, inside suburban Tokyo convenience stores, and specifically their section of frozen bottled drinks, which slowly thaw in my bike’s bottle clip, and can be pressed against the veins of my neck to rapidly reduce my core temperature. The shrinking tubular core of ice in the bottles rattles at my pedaling. I enjoy how vigorous, continuous exercise forces my body to act simply——during the ride I feel that the quantity and salinity of liquids I consume is nearly matched to the sweat drawn out by the sun and humidity. The high humidity leaves me duly slick; the term here is びっしょり. I privately refer to this feeling as parsimony——in that the exertion strips my homeostatic dynamics to their central and sparest path. Various metabolic pathways are pruned to focus on keeping me alive. None of the currency of my body is spent elsewhere. This まばらness is bolstered by the ramrod straightness of the 16 mile trip out, meaning that I have nothing to do but bike until the terminus.

Recently my aluminum Cannondale SR-800 (1992 ish?) has been creaking under load,In the days since writing this I dowsed around online and guessed it was loosening chainring bolts, which once tightened have lowered the main noise significantly and in turn exposed new subtler noises, perhaps from the cassette. which may point to poor bottom bracket lubrication, or a worn chain, or something funny with the cassette. The noise improved on oiling the chain when I replaced the tires, but has since returned. I stopped also at a serendipitous cycling repair shop (called Cruise Craft Cycle) on my trip along the 保谷狭山自然公園自転車道線, and asked about this, but the owner was also unsure, and we just oiled the chain some more. The bicycle has been mine since late August 2019——one of the first things I bought after moving to Cambridge: before a mattress or a desk——and it’s possible that the bottom bracket has not been serviced since the mid nineties, or that running dry over multiple Northeastern winters has taken some toll. I have a photo on my Instagram of the bike in my spare graduate school dorm room, propped against a ridiculous central pillar remaining from the buildings original use as a warehouse of some kind. The room’s strange trapezoidal shape, plus the pillar, made things geomantically impossible. The seller from Craigslist said it had been her husband’s commuter bike for years, and when I bought it it had mismatched rims and tire widths (a ridiculous 28mm front and 23mm back, now both 25mm), and deep abrasions on the downtube. The key unusual aspect of the bike, which like I child I prize in its singularity, is the cantilevered rear stays, which is said to provide supreme stiffness.

On the way back I stopped by the bicycle store again on sight of a 弁当屋 that had drawn a small line. They advertised a rotating menu of simply prepared and packaged set meals, as well as a カボス・シソ juice and something called 田舎まんじゅうBlessed with a monolingual [> Wikipedia page].. I bought both a juice (tart and curiously medicinal from the しそ leaves) and a まんじゅう, the latter of which was eaten once I made it back to 吉祥寺, around the halfway point. I have the irresolute desire to spend some of the summer in a country house, like I imagine many sickly literati have wished before me, desiring mainly to sip cold beverages and idly watch the とんぼ rather than weed-wack or air the 敷き布団, as is actually required in the deep 田舎. I think a little about 三島 and his growing resolve to train his body out of invalidity, out of spiritual weakness. I think about the ridiculousness of my station while consuming a prepackaged and preservative-laden madeleine cookie from the convenience store in the first half of my trek out.

疲労感

At the craft beer place near my house the owners decide on the compound 是韻 to match my name phonetically, handing me a small slip of paper with it written down. In my room a few weeks later I watch a video of the new Phoebe Bridgers song, which has recently been making me cry, maybe because it slots easily into some sensitive memories of how I have loved people, especially when young. On what used to be Twitter overeducated men fight about some new conjecture fallen to the golemsI call these LLMs golems whenever I write about them; there is no other way to view them, or to call on them. Clay beings with scrolls in their skulls. and I can’t feel whatever they feel——my base instinct when tired or when having consumed craft beers is to care more keenly about how it is that Phoebe has managed to get me to weep so simply. Something in this is what all of this writing is about; the non-productive pains I go to to eke out all of this lex. The golems can’t ‘eke the lex’ like I can, I think.

If I could choose myself I think I’d prefer 仙, pronounced sen, rather than the obvious phonetic transliteration. It reminds me of 千, and of the blog hikikomori, which I’d always hoped I could manufacture some facsimile of with someone else.

In discussion one of my friends from graduate school, across from me in the back corner of a quiet and capacious brewery somewhere off Telegraph in Berkeley, told me that his doctorate had felt at times like a religious experience, and in that moment I felt jealous. I am not sure how to feel taken by the sharpness of mathematics. After our evening spent eating and drinking the friend asked me if I’d like to go on a date with him the next day and I responded ambiguously and unhelpfully. I exhibit the useless complex of desperation to be desired and total paralysis when propositioned. Would that I could be called for oceans away and soothe even one person’s twilight ails. The friend asked if I’d ever considered psychedelics, in response to my waffling over career choice, and I responded with some meek thing about feeling unstable enough as it is.