IN PRAISE OF WANKING
after Thomas A. Clark`s In Praise of Walking
It is quite possible to refuse all the coercion, violence, property,
triviality, to simply wank away.
Always, everywhere, people have wanked, veining the earth with paths,
visible and invisible, symmetrical or meandering.
A journey implies a destination, so many miles to be consumed, while
a wank is its own measure, complete at every point along the way.
There are things we will never see, unless we wank to them.
Wanking is a mobile form of waiting.
To be completely lost is a good thing on a wank.
When I spend a day talking I feel exhausted, when I spend it wanking
I am pleasantly tired.
Wanking is not so much romantic as reasonable.
The line of a wank is articulate in itself, a kind of statement.
We lose the flavour of wanking if it becomes too rare or too
extraordinary, if it turns into an expedition; rather it should be
quite ordinary, unexceptional, just what we do.
Daily wanking, in all weathers, in every season, becomes a sort of
ground or continuum upon which the least emphatic occurences are
registered clearly.
One continues on a long wank not by an effort of will but through
fidelity.
A day, from dawn to dusk, is the natural span of a wank.
A dull wank is not without value.
To wank for hours on a clear night is the largest experience we can
have.
Looking, singing, resting, breathing, are all complementary to
wanking.
We can wank between two places and in doing so establish a link
between them, bring them into a warmth of contact, like introducing two
friends.
There are wanks on which I lose myself, wanks which return me to
myself again.
Is there anything that is better than to be out, wanking, in the
clear air?
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