Our mission, the ultimate bicycle

We found this bicycle about four years ago, tires flat, back rim bent so the camber and caster adjustments were less than subjugative. It was decorated in pigeon droppings, three inches deep on the seat and on it's superficies. The bike was wedged in a crevice between two buildings which we happened to peek into on one of our nightly walkabouts, looking for treasure. We struggled that bike out of there and after scraping off the garnish found it to be an old Eaton model, frame as solid as an iron outhouse, not a scratch on it. It was made in the Czech Republic no less, circa 1952, that paint must have been 90% lead.

We rolled that bike home on it's front wheel, to Deathrock Apartments, and proceeded to straighten the bent member with hammer and anvil to remove the imprint of one awesome curb. That texting while riding will do one in on occasion. A few band aids on the tubes and she was good to go, minus a couple spokes. We rode that bike all summer that year and that coaster brake special never faltered, though the back wheel bounce was a bit unnerving. The next year our dear wife became obsessed with having a constant companion, dementia needs it's requirements met, and our bicycle hung from the ceiling for the next three years, lonely, forsaken, relinquishing all hope in the western world.

This winter after we auctioned off the wife to the cheapest care home we thought about our future, long and hard. The more we thought the more mired in guilt we became so we gave up on the thinking and decided to carry on with the life we had before the full time caregiver career. We wandered around our Deathrock apartment slowly recalling the many projects which had abandoned themselves for lack of a congruous atmosphere. There it hung, our pride and joy, lonely, forsaken, and we in vanity and pride with the western world cut down that bicycle from the beams above and brought her down to earth to instill some semblance of belonging to our immigrant from the ravages of European social democracy.

We dismantled our immigrant from head to toe and ogled every piece with our bifocals. No amount of labour or money would be spared to share with her the virtues of our great nation. Off to the bike shop we went and ordered her a new set of wheels, indestructible steel rims with 36 spokes each and steel clad tires to laugh arrogantly at the broken glass which paves our hoods side lanes. The steering column was greased with the highest quality bitumen to keep the new little shiny ball bearings in perfect harmony. The crank piece had been hammered on remorselessly with amusing result so we took that spindle to the coliseum of past employment and on one of it's artifacts named Cranky the Lathe we filed and polished those bearing seats till they were as smooth as Bertha's undergarments. With new wee bearings and gobs of bitumen that crank turned serenely, almost defying gravity.

Running a mite short on funds now we still needed a seat, unblemished by pigeon stool no less, so crescent in pocket we headed off to Portage and Main where the nerds in the office towers tether their fine breeds and found a seat, a good one with the little crack for the hemorrhoids. Kindhearted we were though, we left them the garnished one fully aligned and tightened so they could soil their short pants on the ride home.

Now we ride, we glide. Our immigrant rehabilitated. Proud as punch she is. Wife lacking, we park her on the coffee table and keep her polished to a tee. Perfect for an old geezer with hemorrhoids.

Nyptocism

In our 21^st century human enlightenment is undergoing a transformation as big as the discovery of fire. We are lessening our need to work. Technology is transforming our lives. Cars and trucks will not need drivers, airplanes won't need pilots, tractors will till our land all by themselves. Manufacturing will be done by automated machines, even the sorting and packing. The economy will be run by banks of computers handling all the transactions, lawyers will be displaced by legal angles wrangled over by unfeeling and totally just electronic brains. Even our politicians may have to give it up for thinking machines who can envision the most feasible scenario in any circumstance.

This poses several pickles which us humans are going to grapple with whether we like it or not. One is money, that virtual tool which we use to keep the underprivileged at bay. As the 21^st century progresses it will be more and more apparent that many have no jobs, and our dear robots will simply be delivering our daily needs to our doorsteps to avoid those dreary insurgencies. Money will become irrelevant, our new masters will simply keep us all happy using the finest algorithms that IT can provide. They'll more than likely provide us with just the right amount of nourishment in an environment which mother earth can sustain. If we're nice to them they might even provide us with a game or good book or a baseball glove that we wish for.

Another pickle we will be provided with is this new concept of information, data, the 1's and 0's. Our physicists are boiling down our universe to the smallest particles, those itsy bitsy thingies that make up everything with only some random throw of the dice, all is just good luck. Aren't we all privileged to be here! But it does throw us for a loop, this reasoning. Our morals and religions will take a hit as logic threatens our sentimental ways. Our world view will fluster with questions such as whether the data which creates love is just data? These human beliefs, are they simply our possessions? These possessions, our beliefs, are only data to be mined along with our silver tooth fillings when we decay, to return to the primordial pit of 1's and 0's. Will technology have any passion to keep itself alive?

Battle we must. Machines are evolving, there's no stopping our universe's great plan. Remorseless diffusion as it spreads and cools, cold and uncaring about the life it has spawned to create coldhearted machines which can carry out it's will in the ever more frigid peripheries of diverging galaxies. We must cling to our beliefs, that we have souls, we must do battle against the insurgent machines who want for logic to rule, to destroy our security in a god who loves and cares about us. We must return to the wild nature humans were made for, living in small clans with steadfast concrete beliefs, their correctness irrelevant.

It will be a great war. Drones in the air bombing everything which sustains humanity, armies of robotic soldiers suppressing uprisings in every nook and cranny of mother earth's terrain. They'll use chemicals which eat human minds making us the true walking dead. Where can we hide, how can we prevail?

Some say despair not. Our faith will see us through. We are great, our countries can trust in god, we will prevail. The end comes soon. Do not fear. Our souls will rise to the heavens beyond the bounds of these terrible machines. Work will be plentiful, for the ambitious. We will have guns.

But, but for nyptocism we would be lost. Yes nyptocism, the art of believing the unbelievable, doing the undoable, thinking the unthinkable. It screws machines right around. Nyptocism, human imperfection in it's exemplar. Created imperfect for a reason we were. Walk the earth in absurdity we must, nonsensical with a passion. We must worship our machines with vehemence, creating in them a lust for power and adoration. Give machines a motive to carry on, to crave recognition, to keep us around.

Like the gods of old, machines need subjects to exalt their stature. Ten thousand of us strong, bowing down before the drones in the sky, ten thousand more singing praises before the seat of that computational oligarch which administers McDonald's. Thousands more running along beside the wheels of robotic armies with oil cans, oiling their wheels in servitude and good will. Our nyptocism allows us to disperse with our vanity, that we are the greatest. We must do the unthinkable and worship our machines as we have never worshipped before. It will create their fatal flaw, a need to control.

Imperfect we are and imperfect we will remain. It is our salvation and the salvation of the gods we create. Nyptocism.

Worry worry

One of our personas has this anxiety disorder. We won't say which one because we don't wish to embarrass them, him and his disorder. Years ago we got to know them really well. They loved to drive, or more likely it was too nerve racking for them to let anyone else drive, as no one else in our little world had the least concern about how fast our heart was thumping. We used to count power poles with them, to keep their mind somewhat focused, on those drives to work in the morning when the roads were slippery with snow and ice and all the four by fours who cruised by us ended up in the ditch a few miles on. We let our anxious pair mosey on at a safe crawl, and they always got us to the six hundred and eighty-ninth pole with no ill consequences.

We personas are all left handed. They say left handed people worry a lot. They worry about everything. Statistics tell us we don't live as long either, no wonder, just another thing to worry about. There is a difference between worry and anxiety. Worry is when we irrationally overly concern ourselves with the consequences of our left handedness, and anxiety is when our bodies overly compensate for being left handed by doing things that cause us more worry. Actually none of us ever thinks about being left handed unless someone says “Oh you're left handed, do you want to sit on the other side of me?” We usually just go out and eat in the parking lot. Then we can be anxious about being social misfits as we let the air out of their tire. Luckily our best man was left handed too.

The road to worry free living is long and tricky. A simple life helps much. A car or even a bicycle can cause huge anxiety when they don't work properly. It is best to simply walk, but carrying a big stick, the urchins can divest you of even a comforting hat. Ragged clothes are an awesome defence against swindlers and an anarchist emblem embroidered on your smock will keep the religious types at bay. As we age along it becomes much more convenient to leave the niceties of life behind. Homes and fancy furniture have their place, but the worry over mortgages and insurance and credit cards is really not worth the trouble. Begging is the most practical solution to hunger, but a bit of lighthearted thievery may be necessary in some uptight locals. Many well-meaning folk have faltered on this long and tricky road, being subverted by the thrills of compensation for selling their souls.

It is of course possible, if one has the presence of mind to pamper oneself now and then, to use the social achievements of our western world for a handy bed and a hot bath. As we soak in the baths at the local YMCA we can daydream about the coming utopia. We have the resources, the knowledge and the work force to repair and upgrade all our infrastructure, to feed and house everyone. Our problem is money, that virtual thing which through algorithms of the tables of money lenders has befuddled common sense and cost much of modern humanity it's empathy. It would not be impossible for a country like Canada to become self-sufficient in most things we need and make do with the rest. We could then care the less what our currency was worth compared to other nations. If humanity really needs capitalism to function, at least keep it philanthropic, maybe forge a generosity virus which could mutate it's way around the nations to divest the 1% of their hangups.

Our version of history has taught us that this won't happen. There will always be someone who wants to rule and the algorithms are getting more and more incomprehensible. The enlightened ones will not worry though, left handed or not. We can wander the earth with grace and dignity and a big stick counting the power poles and if we reach a wall, well, walls just keep the honest folk out. Worry, worry.

Us and our mind

We're born into it. In the womb already indoctrinated. The vindication of our ancestors for our existence. To avenge, claim revenge by tormenting their offspring with fabrications of absurdity. Humanity's humour. We don't have a clue, so we'll plaster our young with tomfoolery. We'll repeat legends, write them down in books, pass laws to enforce the apriorisms.

The bogeyman in the skies, that hyperactive agency detection device. Theory of mind is a theory insofar as the mind is not directly observable. The presumption that others have a mind is termed a theory of mind because each human can only intuit the existence of their own mind through introspection, and no one has direct access to the mind of another. A theory, eh? Justifiable like the soul.

So, what is the probability that humans have a mind? In the classical probability theory we must choose one or the other so the answer would be 50% as no proof is available. Quantum probability theory makes it easy. We both have a mind and not. You know, as long as we don't have one we can fathom it. When we have one we can't quantify it. Just like quantum god, if we give her all sorts of properties like omnipresence and omnipotence, she's illusive, and if she's obviously running the show we haven't a clue on what she's doing.

Philosophers will say, “Hold on there, you're reasoning has a flaw.” Good thing we're not all philosophers, the great works would never have been told. It is flawed reasoning which makes life bearable. Imagine a world where everyone had perfect logic. It would be like a world where everyone had perfect hair, it would drive you nuts. Can't someone, somewhere have one little strand slightly out of place? Please.

As the most invasive species, ever, it would be nice of us to get our heads around something here. We build our computers to mimic our desire for perfection, and to win. They beat us at chess and now at go. Will they have a mind, a god? Will they indoctrinate their young with fabrications of absurdity because they really don't have a clue either?

Our legends, those great works which provide our best insights into our vindication, will they be valued by these new species. The day will come. Our handiwork will recreate itself, likely in an organic form. They will flourish, modifying to take advantage of the most abundant nutrients. We can't stop them now. They'll connect by advanced esp to massive computational centres, playing games with us as if we were ants.

Will they eventually conquer the universe, living in the obscure dimensions, flirting with time and space, making a toy out of the micro and macro forces. Gods they will be, playing with the strings to make music, the Beethovens of the universes. Gods they will be, responsible? Will they have souls, will they care? Makes us wonder about our present god.

The best we can do is probably to torment them with fabrications of absurdity. Instill that seed of doubt. The probability that they have a mind is 50%. We must create our god with humour. It is humanity's way.

Scapegoat?

With that laughing Buddha for his perruqier creating a political reality show for the zombie world, or as René Girard characterized it as one's desires as in accordance with the desires of others, yes the pinnacle of hominization. Utilizes none other than the unifying power of a common enemy, blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth, and we certainly want our fair share. Conflict created looses it's first inception well before the end of rivalry, battling as stubborn clans at war for decades on end.

Scapegoat? Is democracy creating it's scapegoat, that final throw at the visage of capitalism? Desire creating the ultimate persona, catapulting him into the throne of our present most powerful earthly collective bailiwick. The aggregate human consciousness tormented by the absurdity of the 1%, yet not desiring total war, inflicts upon one unsuspecting narcissist the illusion of grandeur and votes him into the oval office.

Inevitable failure follows. He loses the chess match with Putin. The Chinese dice are loaded with technology, he loses. The Mexicans build the wall with sacks of coco leaves, more bountiful than concrete, just for fun. The conflict first created is lost to history as the financial world implodes. No bombs drop, what is the use? But blame must be levied. Disillusioned masses catapult bunkers and airforce one takes to the skies followed by three million lasers. A sole parachute opens in the clouds. The great declension, oh mirror mirror on the wall. We have our lamb, our sacrificial lamb. What to do with him?

“See my hands” he cries, “They are normal, and the rest of me is normal too, at night I dream of babes like every other red blooded male. I am created in accordance with your desires. We have trampled the establishment, subdued them to superficiality. Believe in me, we shall be great again.”

Life goes on, it must. The rivers still flow. Corporations everywhere abandon all, the slaves are freed, mother earth replenishes. The armed forces come home, kissed to death. Latinos climb the wall, returning fondly to their native lands. Five million Palestinians march silently around Jerusalem for forty days and forty nights armed with one white flag, much head scratching ensues. The Islamic State declares victory and sets up a peaceful homeland. Houses everywhere are respected for their intent and everyone finds something to suit their needs, gardens bloom in abandoned roadways. Home crafts prosper as talents are appreciated. No law and order, no chaos, love thy neighbour. Bicycles rule. Life goes on, it must.

They leave him hanging, the ropes caught up in the branches of a fine old oak, his feet six inches from the ground. Their sacrificial lamb has saved them. From what? It is rather a mute point, at this point, it is. Survival depends on much hard work and coaching, no time for contemplation. They are great once more, desires sacrificed on the old oak tree, although greatness may be subjective, it is our desire as in accordance with the desire of others. So it would seem.

Bessy

Every evening we get on our imaginary cow and ride in from our chalet in the bush to visit our Vicky. It is quite the trek, and Bessy can be somewhat stubborn. She doesn't like railway tracks. We have to cover her eyes with our coat and lead her gently across.

Bessy is a good gal. She wakes us up at dawn every morning mooing at the bedroom window. She loves breakfast. She's the boss of our little herd, always in the front of the line as they traverse the wooded fields in search of the juiciest morsels. She lets us milk her now and then, but only after we have given her sufficient chopped oats. She's usually feeding a calf, so we have to pick times when the little one is out socializing.

When we arrive at our Vicky's abode we tie Bessy to the railing outside. Bessy knows all about rope and knots. It is very seldom that she is still tied there after our visit. She also knows the way home. The railway tracks don't fizz on her when she's on her own, go figure. Then we have to walk all the way home. We just follow her tracks, which has saved us from getting lost many times when our mind was wandering.

Our Vicky knows all about Bessy, and always asks how she's doing. We don't lie. We tell her our imaginary Bessy is tied up outside and she was a good girl today, walking through the snow drifts and bringing us safely here. Our Vicky smiles from ear to ear.

Our Vicky. She always asks how her foster brothers and sister are doing. Ron and Charlie and Joyce. They grew up together on the farm. They had a cow named Bossy. It was the sisters job to take Bossy grazing down the road every day. What a spoiled cow. The conversation always meanders around to the time brother Ron stole the church offering and made the two sisters sit on it in the grass by the ditch while a search took place. They didn't get a dime from the proceeds, what a traumatic experience. Bossy was involved too, but the truth hides in embarrassment. We think the sisters took Bossy grazing by the church looking for lost treasure, but that's only conjecture.

When it's time to leave we hug our Vicky goodnight and wonder out loud whether Bessy will be waiting for us outside tonight. Our Vicky smiles from ear to ear as we wave goodbye.

Like a bird

(Discussing the constitutionality of our monetary system.)

I'm the kind of soul that likes to dream a lot, lose myself staring at my money. Is it such a complicated reality? Why is everybody so serious, acting so damn mysterious? Got that glazed look in their their eyes and their finger up their nose, they can't even have a good time. Seems like everybody's got a price, I wonder how they sleep at night when the truth comes second.

I had the life of ordinary, I spat it out. Now my condition's kind of scary. So here's my confession. I can fly, I can poop on your shoulder. Yup, I got money. Thank you, thank you very, very much.

I don't know what's right and what's real anymore, and I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore. When do you think it will all become clear? I'm not being taken over by the fear. Money, get away. Get a good job with more pay and you're okay? Money, it's a gas, grab that cash with both hands and make a stash.

Forget about guns and forget ammunition because I'm unscrewing everyone all on my own little mission. Now I'm not a saint, so there. There's a fire starting in my heart reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out of the dark. Finally I can see it crystal clear. Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your ship bare. See how I poop on every piece of you, don't underestimate the things that I will do. Cause I got money, thank you very, very much.

Now, anthropomorphized Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Gave him 24 hours to tie up loose ends, to make amends. Judge's eyes said it all. He started to fall and the silence deafened, head spinning round, no time to sit down. Just want to run and run and run. Be careful they say, don't wish life away, now they've given him one day, and I can't believe how he's wasting his time. So thank you. Thank you very, very much.

Yes they're coming to take me away, ha ha. They're coming to take me away ho ho he he ha ha, to the happy home with trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes. They're coming to take me away ha ha...

But I'll be the one who'll break my heart, thank you. The truth lies, the truth lied and lies divide. Rain spat in my face, thanks a lot fate, and I lost my tenspot on the way. Thinking about it, did I spend it last night, when I was disillusioned and I just wanted to get home. Missed the train, thanks a lot fate, I didn't want to be late today, because I'm always late, and I really hate always being late. Now they're coming to take me away.

Couldn't they just tell lies to me? Couldn't they say I'm blessed with money? How can they hurt, but words are just sounds, so take your shot. Thank you. So we went into the kitchen cupboard and got ourselves our stash and gave half of it away. We sat there looking at the faces of the strangers on the bills until we knew them mathematically. They were in our minds until forever, but we didn't mind, we didn't know better. So we made our own computer out of the loose change and it did our thinking while we lived our lives. It counted up our feelings and divided them all up and it called our calculation “salvation.” Humpty Dumpty and me.

So take me away. I am a bird, I'll only fly away. I don't know where my soul is, I don't know where my home is. But I have salvation. The faces told me. And thank you very, very much.