© americanifesto / 場黑麥
For nearly a century, Grigovian researchers puzzled over the abnormally large numbers of depressed people living in deep valleys high up in the Yiptlong Massif. Some blamed the soured spirits on economics or politics or religion, but a few tenacious scientists began to see patterns in their data, patterns that cut across economic and religious and political lines. Was something in the water fouling the collective mood? they asked, and, Could the cause be genetic? Questions vanished with the discovery of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a condition brought about primarily by insufficient exposure to sunlight. In the wake of SAD, tanning salons in Grigovia's larger cities did a brisk business, but persons living in outlying areas remained depressed, sullen, withdrawn, and grumpy. Plans were drawn up to install artificial sunlight delivery units in public baths in regional population centers throughout Grigovia's higher elevations, but the projected maintenance and electrical costs involved were deemed too high. Then, however planners heard about a Norwegian town installing arrays of sun-tracking heliostats on the tops of the hills that used to shield it from the light of Sol, and they raced to set up copycat operations on Grigovian soil. The first bank of sun-tracking heliostats has been installed 15 kilometers north-west of Grig in the town of Phuir, where it now redirects, on sunny days, a constant stream of bright sunlight onto the town's central square. Local health officials indicate that, at least among the town's elderly persons wheeled out into the square on cloudless days, moods seem to be lifting. More on this story as it develops. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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The Red Son costume is finally complete – authentic ushanka hat with Soviet emblem, hand-drawn Commie Superman t-shirt, weathered gray worker's cape, hammer & sickle belt buckle, and gray pants tucked into high leather work boots. The party is for D.C. political types, mostly Libertarians. I am Red Son, Proletarian Superhuman, and I fear nothing. “Stalin?” people ask incredulously, gawking at me as Obama Robbin' Hood or Spiderman, American Revolutionary or Roaring Twenties flapper. A doe-eyed woman in tight dress and fake-fur coonskin cap says she will go home with me if I make good on my threat to PETA her ass with a gallon of blood. Later, I watch her reluctantly let a man kiss her on the mouth. I am a Proletarian Superhuman; my heart is pure. The inside of the house on the quiet residential street is lit by black-light, and someone has used black-light sensitive tape to write Fuck The State over a prominently-placed Gadsden flag. We chant this slogan while dancing to techno beats, our bodies gyrating wildly as our hearts swell with thoughts of Freedom. I find a flashlight in the grass out back and return it to the mercenary types guarding the front gate, who assure me that their semi-automatic rifles are fakes spray-painted black to look real. I am faster than a speeding bullet; I fear nothing. Next to the backyard bar, near the fire-circle, someone has placed a pumpkin engraved with a hyper-accurate likeness of Lindsey Graham. Our ardor is high, our spirits flicker, aroused. “Have you heard about the revolution?” a man dressed as Trotsky keeps yelling from his post by the kegs of beer. For a spell, he and I harangue all passersby, speaking vehemently of revolution and demanding that our voices be heard. I am a Proletarian Superhuman, and I would like to speak to you about something important. I make a game of pretending to mistake both guys dressed as Where's Waldo for lighthouses – they are gracious and laugh with me; they refuse to be offended. A sexy border patrol agent and I briefly suck face, with me grabbing her mammoth breasts through her shirt, but she is a smoker and I am repulsed by the taste of her mouth. The night deepens; a neighbor calls the cops. “I wish we could smoke some more weed,” a man in a strap-on Amish chin-beard says while inhaling candy from a table over by the kegs. I am Kal-L, chocoholic. Tell me: Do you have a moment to speak about the revolution?
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Banking on reports that show that the ages of children using digital media keep dropping each year, major worldwide electronics manufacturers began scrambling to capture one of the last growth markets – unborn children. “We are calling it the wombPod,” said Elaiyne-Rohz Hammerstein, chief marketing director for Apple Inc., North America. “Essentially, it is a tiny device installed in a minimally-invasive surgical procedure directly into the ear-canal of a developing fetus, whereby a parent can alleviate their spawn's boredom and provide it entertainment while it grows in the womb.” “Of course, Apple already snagged the best name,” said Aryujan Arundujan, lead marketing strategist for HeadsUP Inc., a portable digital electronics company. “But we plan to go a step further by providing an elastic mount by which to attach a screen to the front of the fetal unit's head, thereby providing it not only audio but also visual stimulation.” Moral objections to compromising the amniotic sac for anything less than a life-saving procedure were dismissed in light of the vast profit margins associated with young children becoming addicted to artificial stimuli.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 In one month, this author has reminded himself the hard why he has been laboring to renounce the path of the addict for that of the warrior. Twice now, this month, he has indulged in alcohol and other stimulants, and twice now he has rued the error of his ways. It is not in cloudedness or confusion that his brain finds solace, but in sobriety; it is not in indulgence and excess that his soul finds comfort, but in discipline. His work with the yoga series Embodying Enoughness has helped him considerably so far, and he remembers always this quote from Machiavelli: “There is no more delicate matter to take in hand, nor more dangerous to conduct, nor more doubtful of its success, than to set up as the leader in the introduction of changes.” Aho.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 At the bi-annual Grigovian Traditional Stew and Soup competition, a single recipe won the highest awards for Best in Show, Best Lingering Flavour, and Longest Staying Power / Greatest Nutritional Value. The soup – a borscht-like stew thickened with oil of czabtyip, suffused with organic vegetables, and riddled with chunks of braised goose-meat – was submitted by Uyiast Ouyend, a 94 year-old woman who lives in the hills north-east of Pryaghdoyest. She plans to use the prize money – 250 yind (roughly $500) – to upgrade her village's defensive perimeter and get a new trigger-assembly for her vintage SKS battle rifle.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 As an essential tool in the ongoing shaping of the fictitious Central Asia nation of Grigovia, I drew of it a map. And while adding the final touches to this map, in order to correctly determine its bordering states, I consulted a pre-Unification Diercke Weltatlas (world atlas) from my days at the Gymnasium in Germany. I had forgotten how fascinating it was to look at an atlas, at my leisure to follow the contours of a random chunk of the Siberian landscape, to examine the living conditions in and population data for a township in Apartheid South Africa, to puzzle over a detailed and colorful analysis of the economy of Argentina in the 1989. Only with effort did I remembered my task, flip to the proper page, and write down Iran, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan. My task completed, I looked back at the atlas fondly and appreciated it for having no bright display, no DSL uplink, no spyware, no malware, no netbook battery indicator counting down the minutes, no Tumblr feed to scroll through, no email to answer, no hyperlink to follow – that for ten minutes of my life on a Tuesday evening it was just me and a 20-year old book filled with pictures of countries, some of which no longer exist.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Citing concerns about the long-term feasibility, fundamental morality, and ongoing reliability of shipments of oil from Saudi Arabia and natural gas from Russia, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia began the process of shifting its motor-pools to biodiesel. “For too long we have ignored a fuel source that is renewable and that we grow here at home, preferring instead products sold by authoritarian regimes,” said Dr. Frederikka Velldoyend, Grigovia's prime minister. “With help from foreign and local experts and funded by sizable investment in the research and development of biodiesel technologies at our major universities, we expect Banoyend to have thrown off the yoke of foreign petrochemical by beginning of next decade.” One major stipulation of the Mandate for Energy Independence, or MAENIN, is that a majority of the plant material used to make Grigovian biodiesel come not from dedicated biomass but rather from waste such as rotten or spoiled or insect-ravaged crops, tree trimmings, construction and industrial wood-tailings, fallen leaves, and residential grass clippings. “Our preliminary research shows that the local timber and construction industries alone produce enough leftover wood scraps to provide biodiesel for half of Grigovia's government motor pool,” said Ryain Uloyenst-Hong, an American-Grigovian professor of applied sciences on sabbatical from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). “Once we prove its feasibility and economy by converting our military and government vehicles to run on this native-grown fuel source, we plan to make it available across Grigovia,” said Theorovask Iyend, public liaison for the country's Interior Ministry. “In just a few years, at major fueling stations from Pyltagrad to Gar Nuuzsh, from Pryaghdoyest to Iysh, the Grigovian will be able to recharge or refill her vehicle with renewable electricity from solar and wind, imported gasoline, or local biodiesel. Huzzah.” Persons interested in brewing their own biodiesel should visit the Interior Ministry's website, where they will find detailed blueprints for building a biodiesel distillery, safety guidelines, and links to public funding sources. MAENIN is the newest phase in Grigovia's efforts to ween itself off fossil and non-renewable fuels. Over the past two years it has increased its energy production from geothermal and wind sources to cover 30% of national demand.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 If I have learned anything while reading the books I have been reading this year, it is that the decisions that a few people make can greatly affect the rest of human society. When a Chinese student dared to glue his poem to the Democracy Wall in Beijing after it had been outlawed, his words helped change a nation; when a group of Germans invaded the British Isles and chose to stay there and settle, our fascinatingly complex English language was born; when a rambunctious researcher discovered the opiate receptor, her research helped unlock the secrets of how emotion works; and when a single person writes about an imaginary press conference held in a tree-house by a fictional girl, he touches the minds of persons living around the world. It is impossible to know how far one's ripples will reach, whether they will be accepted with curiosity or hostility, or – especially in our digital age – for how long their potency will continue. Unlike in centuries past, however, when in order to be heard or read or seen a person had to scrape before and beg at the feet of a wealthy benefactor, today even the lowliest among us can start a blog, speak out, and make waves. What a fascinating modern age we live in. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Citing the official classification of drone strikes as crimes of war, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia (GROG) ceased diplomatic relations with the United States of America. “So long as Mr. Obama insists on the extra-judicial and illegal killing of persons in sovereign nations around the world, Grigovia shall view him as hostile to peace, freedom, and justice,” said Dr. Eiyast Hyuyend, foreign minister of GROG. “Our nation deals only with regimes that foster cooperation and compassion amongst peoples, not with those that use flying death-robots to wantonly destroy lives, hope, and peace.” Along with cessation of diplomatic relations GROG announced a nationwide boycott on trade with the American Empire. The Yundex, Grigovia's premier stock exchange, rallied moments at the announcement as local business scrambled to strengthen its solid ties with markets in Asia and Africa. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Yesterday, while playing disc golf with a few friends, I was granted a glimpse into the inner workings of my psyche. At about the 12th hole my spirits began to flag and I unconsciously decided to allow the innocent banality of the others' conversation bother me. Having said nothing during the first part of the game about people grunting approvingly and saying “Nice” every time someone else even touched a disc (regardless of how that disc actually flew), I finally explained the course etiquette to the new member. “When a person says 'Nice' while someone else's disc is still in the air, it's called nicing the disc,” I said. “And nicing a disc is a breach of course etiquette, especially when the disc does not in fact fly well and the person who niced the disc then retracts his initial statement and says something like 'Uh never mind' or 'Bummer dude'.” The man laughed dismissively and I noticed the two other men in our group stiffen slightly around the groin. As soon as I registered these reactions to my brief explanation about nicing discs, I realized that the only reason I had said anything was because I was trying to exert power over the other players, to make them stop grunting and moaning and cursing out loud whenever a bit of colorful plastic didn't fly exactly the way they had hoped it would. Thinking back I realized that most of what I had said that day had been in part intended to make others dance to a tune of my liking, to get them to see things the way I saw them, to coerce them into adopting a pattern of My choosing. This realization flooded me with awareness and as I traced my subsequent actions back to their source I found that most of them – from using my netbook instead of focusing fully on the other person in the room to the topics I brought up for conversation – were somehow related to the exertion of power within the dynamics of a group. The need to feel powerful pulls subtly but inexorably at the cockles of one's heart, and one of the best ways to keep it in check is to remain humble, speak little, and remember that each person is entitled to his or her own opinion, that each person walks a path of his or her own choosing. The power that comes from controlling others pales when compared to the might of self-control. Aho.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 As part of its drive to rid itself of superfluous institutions, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia prepared to hold referenda during most of November in order to gauge its citizens' mood for sweeping societal change. “For months now, branches of the National Group to Reinstate Liberty (NGRL) situated around Grigovia have been scouring the most successful and most free cultures of past and present looking for methods to govern and regulate consensual human interaction in as unobtrusive a way as possible,” said Uontoyest Inndt, deputy director of NGRL. “After chewing over and filtering out those elements most likely to secure the Blessings of Liberty to the greatest number of people in a society, we are ready to present our findings to the Grigovian citizenry and allow them to decide how great a leap they are willing to take in their quest for freedom and equality.” Grigovia has shut down a number of its branches of government, among them most of the Taxation Bureau, the long-defunct Censorship Bureau, and the Bureau for the Control of Deadly Substances. Former government employees are receiving training to help them reintegrate into the civilian economy. Organs of government scheduled to stay open but slated for restructuring are the Department of Civil Defense, the Department of Education for Youth, and the Department of Bridges and Roadways. Citizens are invited to contact NGRL or comment on this article with additional suggestions for how it should proceed. Huzzah, and long live Liberty in the glory of gregarious Grigovia.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Inspect closely the hose of any hardcore and regular velocipedist and you will find his ankle cuffed. Held firmly in place by clasp or tie or tiny bent teeth the leg-cuff serves one main purpose: to keep the pant-leg from fouling in and being soiled by crank or gear or spoke. In the course of their duty the parts of a bicycle that spin accumulate grit and grime and soot and dirt, which swim in a soup of chain-grease that upon contact instantly impregnates clothing with tenacious and tar-black patterns removable only by excision. Furthermore, when a loose pant-leg catches on the teeth of a gear-wheel it can bring the rider's legs to such a sudden stop that their momentum unbalances and unships him, an undesirable event that results in bruised egos, skinned elbows, and cracked skulls. During his life this author used to laugh upon seeing individuals wearing the bicycling cuff, until he himself ruined a few pairs of pants and nearly crashed more than once due to his clothing getting caught on protrusion, nub, or gear-wheel. Now, he cuffs both legs. (The cuff on his right leg he sewed together using a discarded Velcro clasp and the reflective tape from a bloody safety vest he found in the woods during hunting season; the cuff on his left leg is battery-operated and at night flashes a bright red light.) The only disadvantage to cuffing the pants while riding is that people will laugh and point and wonder what the balls one is up to, which is a small price to pay for improved safety and the knowledge that one will arrive in pants soiled only by the tears of the traffic-jammed drivers one passed along the way. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 click here for the Truthout.org article about war criminal, child killer, and American president Barack Hussein Obama's global War Of Terror.
Acting in the knowledge that currencies not pegged to physical media tend to be unstable and inflationary, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia started the process of coupling the yind to valuable and useful metals such as copper, platinum, and titanium. “During the Soviet occupation of our country from 1953 to 1988 our currency was enslaved to Russia's ruble,“ said Ridtgarst Youlendt, spokesman for the Grigovian Mint. “And from 1990 until 2002 the yind was tied to the United States Dollar. Since 2002 it has been pegged to the Euro, but in a referendum the Grigovian citizenry cried foul of this arrangement.” The recent discovery – in old 18th century iron mines located in the north-eastern Yiptlong massif – of large reserves of platinum and titanium led the Grigovian people to call for greater independence from foreign powers in things monetary and military. “Just this year we destroyed attempts by the Rothschilds to take over the Grigovian Central Bank, and we are actively thwarting efforts by the United States of America to overthrow our own democratically elected government,” said Dr. Eleinah Turyendt, state secretary of finance. “With wise and patient measures we are confident in our abilities to hammer out the details of returning to the gold standard.” The change should be completed by November 20th, Grigovia's second official national independence holiday during which it commemorates its self-liberation from Persian rule in 250 B.C.E. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 While visiting a museum I came across a poster from the time of the Second World War (see here). In it, a dashing man fully-formed sits in his cabriolet coupe next to the outline of Adolf Hitler. Across the top the poster reads: When you ride ALONE you ride with Hitler! Across the bottom it says: Join a Car-Sharing Club Today! In an age when the needs of the many tended to outweigh the needs of the few, when sacrifice and diligence and cooperation tended to trump convenience and wastefulness and selfishness, this poster probably have changed a few minds or convinced a handful of housewives to pool and conserve their resources. How, though, would such a poster work today? Would replacing Hitler with the outline of a religiously extremist Central Asian in turban and Kalashnikov (instead of the hardcore, genocidal Teuton in iron cross and side-part) convince today's Americans to understand that every gallon of Saudi Arabian gasoline they burn in their vehicles supports terrorism worldwide (see here & here)? I believe it is possible to win hearts and minds by using a slogan such as this: When you ride ALONE you finance Al Qaeda. I believe that if more people realized that America's addiction to combustible petrochemicals is her glaring, fatal Achilles heel, and if more people actively and consciously fought this addiction, we could move into a phase of human evolution marked not by death and pollution and destruction but by compassion and bounty and cooperation. So long, however, as we stay addicted to gasoline, as we keep driving alone, as we keep believing in the myth of American exceptionalism, as we keep voting for politicians who sell out to corporate interests, as we keep rejoicing at the subjugation and destruction of foreign lands by our military, and as we overdose on television we Ynki shall remain what we have become – a sea-anchor tearing apart the fragile structure of our common tender humanity. America delenda est.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 At the behest of the Arab League and with the intention of helping end the civil war in Syria, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia sent a highly decorated team of veteran negotiators to bring both sides of the conflict to the table. “In addition to the team of negotiators, other Grigovian teams will be helping to patrol Syria's borders in order to prevent more Saudi Arabian black operations teams from launching any more gas attacks against innocent civilians,” said Heirdoyesst Ont, head of Grigovia's Foreign Assistance Board. Experts expect the war in Syria to end only when American, British, and Israeli intervention in the internal conflict also ends.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 He went numb this weekend, following the old patterns of his adolescence, and felt once more the stupor and cloudiness he had for two decades lived under. It was intended to be a celebration of his hard work over the past months, and he rallied his self-esteem only by reminding himself that his lapse had been a one-time thing, a brief exploration of the old habits, and not a resumption of the old ways. Onward and forward, now, so that this lapse not collapse the whole tower. Aho.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 A young dashing earthworm, his skin never cut, was digging a passageway through a deep rut. He ate down the one side, and on up the next, much soil he processed, much muscle he flexed. Then lo to his wonder, against judgment sound, he found Krukuv's root-cellar, under his mound. Fair welcome, fine fellow, old Krukuv did say, Come munch on these wood chips, and eat of this hay. The earthworm ate gladly, until he was full, he summoned his kinfolk, so great was his pull. Now listen, my earthworms, the dashing one said, we make this our home base, from here out we spread. If times should turn sour, if grass should grow sparse, man Krukuv will save us, he'll cover our arse. For our part we'll digest, all dead things we can, and transform these mountains into fertile land. The earthworms they allied, with Krukuv that day, as payment took wood-chip and compost and hay. They fanned it out in numbers, they transformed and roamed, they turned the clay soils right back into loam. The banks of the Yalung, with dark soils abound, so rich and so fertile, they reach meters down. They work well with tubers and legumes and rice, they're sacred and precious, their worth has no price. Grigovians their blessed homelands do cherish and for it they spill blood and will gladly perish. It all started long ago, one fateful day, when wise old man Krukuv let an earthworm stay. By one simple gesture he helped bless this land, with deep loamy soils, with crops tall and grand. So be kind to all things small big young and old, and you will get loyalty that can't be sold. This is Krukuv's lesson, and it is well known, by wise men and women – now make it your own.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Oh how I miss hunting graffiti! How I wish to have the wind in my hair and a blunt in my teeth, to be hurtling through the flashing voids on a trusty velocipede in search of street art, my elusive and mysterious quarry. Oh – and oh! – to apply my whorphans as I diligently photograph and thereby preserve the wonderful phenomenon of urban art wherever it should arise, and to rejoice in its chaotic meritocracy, actions that are among my favorite things to do. It matters little in which city I do it, for every metropolis has its own flavor and rhythm of street art, its players major and minor, its hot spots and dead-zones, its tenors and vibes, colors and styles. Finding a piece I have never seen before or discovering a work of art that within hours could be painted over by a city technician evokes within me emotions best described as joyful. Another piece of this riotous, fleeting beauty has been preserved (!!), and once uploaded it will bring smiles to faces from Capetown to Seoul, Tashkent to Los Angeles, Auckland to Murmansk. I recognize the collection and display of graffiti as among my greatest missions in life, and while I do not know where it will take me, I sure am loving the ride. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 To celebrate thirty years of mutually honoring true Liberty and independently perpetuating human dignity by keeping income distribution at an equitable level, the capital cities of Caracas and Grig today declared their sisterhood. “This is a fine day for the champions of human cooperation,” said Dr. Eoyast Duoryyist, mayor of Grig on the Yalung, while touring the South American capital in celebration of the event. “We look forward,” he continued, ”to receiving in mountainous Grigovia delegations of these beautiful, sun-tanned people, who will surely fall in love with the children of our land, just as we have fallen in love with the children of these shores.” Jacqueline Faria, who is the mayor of Caracas, Venezuela, uttered a similar sentiment, claiming: “History will not soon forget the bonds we have made here, the trust we have forged here, the love we have shared here – especially your love, Mr. Mayor of Grig.” When last seen, Dr. Duoryyist had become so smitten with a pair of willing and buxom twin peasant girls that the 72-year-old was following them around in the manner of a hopelessly enamored schoolboy.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥 Even as it is tussling with Pakistan on its southeastern border, Afghanistan is celebrating its ongoing friendship with a small neighbor to the northwest, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia. “We recognize the continuing validity and current location of our border with Grigovia, and rejoice in the many years of peaceful prosperity we have shared together,” said Hamid Karzai, prime minster of Afghanistan, at an early-morning press conference in Herat. “Unlike the borders drawn by the cowardly British during the 19th Century, the delineating line that separates the Grigovian from the Afghani people runs exactly where we both agreed it should run during 1952's Regional Conference for Peaceful Prosperity – Central Asia.” After his speech, Karzai warmly greeted his counterpart from Grigovia, the newly-elected prime minister Dr. Frederikka Velldoyend.
“Thank you, brother Hamid,” said prime minster Velldoyend after waiting for a round of raucous applause to die down. “As one of the first female prime minsters in the history of Central Asia, I am overjoyed to be able to recommit to a future replete with peaceful cooperation and prosperous dealings between our two peoples. Together – that is, without any more undue and illegal meddling by foreign powers, especially the United States of America – we might yet after so many decades of hateful warmongering experience peace in these lands. Begone, Ynki invaders, and may you darken our common soils no longer.” To commemorate the occasion, the prime ministers signed a mutual trade and travel pact designed to increase and promote interaction between the Afghani and Grigovian peoples. mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥 This author is barely back a week from Los Angeles, and already he yearns for the runs. The velocipedist who reads this blog will recognize the Ord Run from previous writings: it starts at Marukai Market in Little Tokyo, heads up to Hill and Cesar E. Chavez, and mashes Sunset all the way over to where that boulevard hits Vine. Old man Ord, however, has a new companion, the San Vicente Run (i.e. Santo Viczenzo), which starts at where Wilshire crosses the 405 freeway and approaches Hollywood from the west, either via Elevado or Santa Monica Boulevard.
Both of these runs the author would make regularly, never ever standing to pedal, on an L.A.-made, fixed-gear, gray Retrospec bicycle with bright green wheels. He surfed Bay Street and the Venice Breakwater, hunted urban art from the Palisades to Elysian Park, and ran the runs whenever he was able to – during rush-hour or at 3 am, under skies clear and smoggy, his heart bursting joyfully with every passing foot, flashing spoke, and humming tire. And the Boba Fett nods he received from other smog-sledders (!!!), each glance-and-dip a barely perceivable acknowledgement of his worth as a self-respecting street cyclist, each quick look grudging recognition of the toughness commonly found among persons who mash California's sun-burnt boulevards. Someday, I will once more reside in the fine Golden State, and run these runs whenever my heart desires, but, until then, be well in my absence, fair Angelinos, and mahalo. mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥 Moving the body from place to place on a velocipede has many advantages over using a motor vehicle, or walking. To ride bicycle, to mash velocipede, is to issue a clear and open declaration of one's physical exuberance, hurtling, sweaty proof that one is in both good health and high spirits. During one's travels, one learns the rhythm and character of a region's unique micro-climates, so that the brow gets cooled by a secret breeze and one can weather the noon-time heat in a cool and shaded grove. The bicyclist searches without pause for routes he can ride that lack cars, whose roads are newly paved, or those that are superior to the traffic-choked byways frequented by slave's charioteers, the drivers of cars; so long as he keeps looking, his town provides unique views of treasures previously overlooked and beauty previously ignored. He explores secret places he would likely never chance upon in a car while covering more ground than if he were traveling on foot, and the smogsled requires neither metered parking nor paid attendants. The only exhaust vapor created during cycling is one's own vital breath, and the only waste heat produced drips as sweat from the ruddy and invigorated skin. He sleeps well at night knowing that he dragged himself across the phaltscape burning only the fuel found in his tender guts.
As a silent propulsion system, bicycling resembles the Russian caterpillar drive of Hunt for Red October myth but where the Commies used fusion-powered, the velocipedist puts to work his piston-like legs and stout heart. To move the body from place to place without a nuclear reactor takes time and effort, and bicycling is time spent in honest effort. Dust off your wire donkeys, ye lazy carbuncles, and display your independence from want one pedal-stroke at a time. mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥 |
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