I sing to myself as I bike to and from work. It's improvisational, generally a verbalization of what I see along the way. I like to think of it as a feed-back loop of the now, though it may not be as present-centric as all that.

This is nothing new. I believe I initiated the practice as a way to relieve stress when I commuted from the east side along John Nolen, which tended to be hairier, more bike revolutionaries (of which I am not one) facing off against the motor tide. Singing about the antics and the idiocy somehow kept them from getting tangled in my muscles and moods.

And, I developed such songs as the homopunk masterpiece chik-in hol.

I've kept it up. Witness a July 2 tweet--

BalletArthritiq: Yesterday's pm bike commute, I rode behind a guy with the most amazing ass. I sang to it all the way home.

Today, in-bound lyrics, similarly unapologetically objectifying, included "Delicate neck," "Nice underwear band: the fit of the jean," and "No socks: sexy." Just now, I'm focused, rather inexplicably, on the male ankle.


Margit Carstensen said...

There will be no better way--no brighter accounting of songs and singing, their various bodily importances and transits--to start the week, the month (since September is just around the corner)!

Erk said...

Margit - thank. you. thanks for reminding me that i'm still here. all of Sept.'s lyrics will be sung in your honor. perhaps I should specify, all of Sept's sweet lyrics, so you won't be associated with the eyerollers like "Texting while biking, dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb," "Y'all's 3-abreast; je vous d├ęteste," and "SLOW-ly, SLow-ly." xoxo