haiku 15 Nov 2018

Down the dark alleys

Gliding on silent rubber
A bicyclist zooms

[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]

somewhat-royal honeymoon

Thallandia Yündlennd married Reginald Augustus Steele for a second time this past weekend, in Grig, capital of Grigovia. In this small, Central Asian nation, tradition dictates that bride and groom state in the presence of a witness (of their choosing) to uphold and protect the Life, Liberty, and Property of the other person; once they and the witness have signed the Statement of Loving and Voluntary Partnership, the couple is officially married. (Religious organizations are forbidden from interfering with marriage; it is a secular affair. Either party may leave a marriage at any time and for any reason, but most pairs stay hitched because, according to nearly every twosome interviewed for this story, “we wouldn't have wed in the first place if we didn't plan on sticking together.” Grigovia's court system is staunchly egalitarian – in cases of divorce, children older than 13 years can choose which parent to live with whereas younger offspring go to the more psychologically stable person [with the less stable person receiving visitation rights]; property and debt are split equally. Marriage between couples of the same sex has been legal in Grigovia since 1964.)

After signing the necessary documents, the princess and Mr. Steele drank two beers each, smashing the bottles at the bottom of a concrete staircase behind City Hall (where Statements of Partnership are stored). Then, they bicycled two miles to Grig's main train station and purchased second-class tickets to the western city of Pyltagrad. (The Grigovian royal house has enjoyed only symbolic significance since Thallandia's great-grandfather abdicated in 1912 in order to return the right of self-government to his people.) After a few nights at one of Pyltagrad's many fine vineyards, the couple traveled east, to Gar Nuuzsh, where they stayed for a week with Thallandia's parents. (While there, the not-so-newlyweds set up a website with pictures and videos from their first honeymoon, most of which they spent backpacking through California's Sierra Nevada mountain range.) Upon meeting his son-in-law in person for the first time, King Erdogassdt Yündlennd said, merely, “Hrm.”

The wedding comes at an already joyous time for Grigovia. Unemployment is the lowest it's been in four decades, health-care is universal and efficient, and a new robotic hybrid-electric bus system services even the most secluded hamlet. “The Banoyend [Grigovians' name for themselves] are fair, but they can be brutal,” Reginald Steele said. “Throughout their history, they have expelled foreign usurpers and invading armies alike with legendary ferocity while showing kindness and generosity to neighbors in need. The princess and I plan to use our natural-born abilities to improve the lives of as many Grigovians as we can, she with her engineering skills and I with my art. We are easing our way into society humbly and patiently, so as not to stoke anyone's ire.” As part of the somewhat-royal couple's gift to the Grigovian people and in an effort to promote peaceful trade between peoples, they will spend next Spring clearing land mines sowed by Soviet forces in the mountain passes that lead into Afghanistan. Princess Thallandia is expecting twins.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on quartering artists

Throughout the ages, Grig has attracted all types of artists. From dreamer and schemer to musician and entertainer, clown and pickpocket to acrobat and whore, visionaries from all walks of life have made this city their home. Some came to gaze upon the towering spires of the Yiptlong massif, others to exploit the skills of local craftsmen, but anyone who was ever here yearns above all else to bask once more in the generosity of the local inhabitants. Glad to share freely of their hearty food and strong czabtyip wine, Grigovians support unfettered artistic expression by participating in a privately-operated lottery. (5% of revenues cover the lottery's operating costs; the rest is used to maintain live-work galleries that for centuries have lined the foothills east of the Yalung River.) Among the artists to have made names for themselves here are Albrecht Dürer, Felix Mendelsohn, Lewis Carrol (who taught briefly at the Academy of Mathematical Computation), Salvador Dali, Earnest Hemingway, Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, and Quwvin Olyast. (In 1914, in Pyltagrad, Quwvin founded a commune for artists and their families. Shortly after the Second World War, he organized and presided over the first Artists' Congress, which provided art-based shell shock treatment to soldiers returning from war and organized the world's first Artists' Support Society [ASS], a group that still provides talented people with the tools they need to be creative.)

In line with the ancient traditions, today's Grigovian artist is painter and sculptor, poet and carpenter, urban survivalist and compassionate philanthropist. He is a Consummate Caleb, not a One Track Jack. He is as comfortable in a graffiti-stained sewer as he is in a fine Parisian salon; his tools are spray-can and chisel, pencil and computer mouse, papier mâché and fluorescent bacteria; he accepts challenges both daunting and laughable, exploring society's weak points by shaking it to its core. His is a world where private behavior is unregulated but the boundaries of public behavior are clearly defined, where the default emotional state is quiet humility, and where few quarrels occur because everyone is armed.

The Nonnia Olyast Work-Live Gallery Block is named for Quwvin's wife, who shortly after her death was declared a national heroine for her efforts to cure homelessness. In addition to funds from the national lottery, the new Block is partly financed by princess-in-exile Thallandia Yündlennd and her fiancé, Reginald Augustus Steele. Now 24 years old, the princess studies mechanical engineering in Los Angeles, at the University of California. On an early-morning bicycle ride from Little Tokyo via Sunset up into Hollywood (i.e. the Ord Run), she met Mr. Steele, who is considered by prudent observers to be somewhat of a loose cannon, although he is a talented artist and good with kids. In an official statement from the Artists' Support Society, Grigovia is now a safe haven for any artist who has ever been abused, neglected, or under-appreciated. Come and all, make beauty wall.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

foreboding forgotten, ignored

Against the advice of more than a half dozen friends and close associates, an area man ignored feelings of foreboding and deeply-rooted worry and set out alone on an arduous, five-day-long bicycle ride through Death Valley. Planning on sticking to side routes, old Indian paths, and animal tracks so as to prove to himself his ruggedness and ability to read the land, 55 year-old chain restaurant owner Nivan Laurentz of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania made it halfway through the first day before disaster struck. According to entries in his diary, as soon as he had moved beyond sight of his car, “GPS batteries died trying to acquire signal; compass gone – lost, or dropped; backup water-sack leaking; backup to backup water-sack rank, foul; two front bicycle tires shredded by sharp rocks; forearms sunburned badly, cheap aloe gel runny and ineffective.”

The only traces of Mr. Laurentz's passage found during a search conducted by Park Rangers and area sheriffs were his diary and a trail of detritus dropped alongside the remnants of a path leading into the deepest and hottest regions of this barren and forsaken land. “The missing person's belongings lay strewn about, as if he were trying to lighten his load, or to find a precious commodity, which out here includes even a mouthful of water,” said Officer Dolores Ovillia, of the California Highway Patrol, who has combed the desert many times in search of lost or wayward citizens. “Then, of a sudden, all traces stop, as if the land had opened up and swallowed him – his bike, his bags, all traces.” Nivan's vehicle was unmolested, leading authorities to rule out foul play. “If this had been robbers or highwaymen lying in wait for an unsuspecting traveler to stop and park and get out for a stretch, then the vehicle would have been entered forcibly, and its contents – even those of comparatively little monetary value – would have been removed to another vehicle or to a different location,” said Agent Padraig Raian O'Malley of the federal Bureau of Land Management, who joined the search on its second day. “We see it out here occasionally, desperate people robbing and killing others and then selling their things at swap meets farther west, but, in this case, we have the trail of detritus and the diary, so we can rule out foul play by all parties but Mother Nature herself.”

One hot, dusty search-party after the next returned to the tent village that sprouted in the parking lot where the missing man's car was found, each group throwing up its hands in defeat and sinking despondently into folding chairs to drink cup after cup of hot green tea. Among the searchers was the California People-Finders Collective, a non-profit organization that specializes in… finding people. Said Webster Dulvishnakov, who canceled plans to attend a friend's wedding in order to help with the search, “We've been using methods developed to find persons buried in avalanches, lining up next to each other in rows and poking long sticks into dunes, trying to locate the body, the bike, anything that might offer clues. In his diary, Mr. Laurentz even talked about being really worried that things might go wrong, foreboding feelings he obviously ignored. I've seen scenario such as this before, though – guy starts feeling old, and, after bicycling around his town for a month, he thinks he's ready to do a Death Valley loop trail, alone, with untested and insufficient supplies, cheap stuff bought at big-box retailers. We People-Finders have located individuals who lost their way after walking ten feet into the woods to take a leak. Talk about one less mouth to feed – some people should just stay at home, and stay alive.” After three fruitless days, the search ended, everyone going home to take cold showers.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

encylopediamericanifesto: phaltweariness - dehydration

  Among the many serious dangers the smog rider faces daily is the risk of dehydration. A condition easy to overlook but deadly if ignored, the body's dehydration distress call resembles closely the distress call it makes to signal hunger; additional telltale signs of dehydration are crankiness and fatigue. A few reports say that within smog rider packs it is common for the incessantly whining and inexplicably binge-eating member to be forced to hydrate by the IPM (the Instant & Perpetual Militia, i.e. the smog-packs' ubiquitous, fully meritocratic agents of enforcement), however our trust in the source for these reports is shaken.

  Multiple trustworthy sources report that when cycling in desert climates the smog rider adjusts his body to the local variances for temperature and humidity, a somewhat risky process in which he trains his body to need less water than it needs in more northern-lying areas. The first step he takes in this process is to eat of the local soil, and to pledge his fealty to the spirits of the land, and to praise the things growing in it, and to celebrate the things scampering across its face (a curious custom akin to the practices of First People tribes). Once he has ingested of the local earth, he cuts back on water gradually until he needs only a liter of it a day, and perhaps a few ounces more if he should exercise vigorously.

  An active person and avid reader alike, the smog rider learned some of the eternal lessons of the desert by reading tales about Rommel and Lawrence of Arabia, tales of Westerners surviving in the desert on minimal amounts of water using methods they learned from the Bedouin people. (In fact, he considers himself deep down an adjunct member of the hard-scrabble group of desert dwelling bad-asses know as the Fremen, from in Frank Herbert's book Dune.)

  But he is not Fremen, and he is not Bedouin – he is a smog-riding street-art vagabond, a man free of scorn and haste whose heart is pure, and in whom there is no room for death.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

on phaltweariness - the automobile

  Today's city streets are pitted and rough as if mauled by large and powerful beasts, and the souls of the people who drive upon are similarly abused. Aggression and impatience descend without fail upon the poor buggers who drive upon today's maligned avenues.

  We the Smog Riders of the America Phaltscape (the asphalt landscape) look often with pity upon our neighbors of the road, they who spend long hours strapped tightly to chairs which are in turn bolted to the floors of a tiny metal boxes. After spending years in such torturous environments, they will have forgotten the satisfaction of moving their own bodies through space/time using nothing other than living muscle and some metal tubes bolted to a pair of pneumatic tires. Rather than the good sweat that stands upon the skin of the bicyclist after a healthy cross-town slog, the sweat of the car driver will be distressed and foul, an oozing sheen that tends to creep through his furrowed brow as he worries about the skyrocketing price of petroleum.

  The smog riding street-art vagabond knows as well to avoid paying for petrol as she does to remain always vigilant of the withering and debilitating affects of phaltweariness – it is her duty to preserve the chaotic super-abundance of Street Art, and to record for Posterity as much of it as she can. To fulfill this task, and to keep her feet on the pedals, she has learned the limits of her body's tolerance for dehydration, pain, and exhaustion, and she knows how to make herself well again.

  Given the phaltweariness, the stressed out drivers, and the miles spend cycling through the phaltscape, how does the vagabond capture every unique work of street art that is at risk of being torn down as soon as it goes up? She does not. But she does what she can do, photographing what pictures might cross her path with the road grit fouling her mouth and a song filling her heart.

Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

on simplicity in cycling

  Increasing numbers of urban bicyclists are abandoning multi-gear propulsion systems in favor of less complex mechanisms with fewer moving parts. In theory, a mechanical system with few moving parts is less prone to failure than a system with many moving parts, as the more complex system contains more elements that could fail (think of the many levers, wires, and gear-wheels on a ten-speed bicycle compared to the single gear-wheel on a child's bike). Among the individuals rediscovering the fixed-gear or single-gear propulsion system are urban bicycle messengers.

  The rugged and far-ranging operator known as the bicycle messenger traverses dozens of miles of urban landscape in varying weather conditions carrying heavy and unwieldy packages on her back. In her effort to maximize her workable hours by reducing repair- and maintenance-related down time, the bike messenger put to use one of the most simple bicycle-specific propulsion systems she could find – the fixed-gear.

  While the simplicity and reliability of the fixed-gear propulsion system has gained wide popularity in recent years, I have re-discovered an even more simple system for propelling myself forward by bicycle – by pushing off with the foot from vertical surfaces or from the ground. While perusing randomly a tome-like dictionary at Central Library, I stumbled across a picture of the early bicycle, upon which the rider moves forward by pushing off from poles, hydrants, curbstones, etc.

  In this picture we can see that the device is missing standing-fins upon which the operator might rest his feet and balance (which would be included on a modern design). There is no mechanical propulsion system, and the wheels roll freely in any direction. On the one hand, this device is merely a large, steerable scooter upon which the operator can sit; the omission of a propulsion system other than the kicking leg may be too much for the velocipedist who faces hills or whose routes lack vertical surfaces. On the other hand, urban environments are filled with vertical surfaces the operator might kick from (electrical poles, parking meters, and street signs, to name a few), and most of Earth's cities are flat and covered with layers of asphalt (which makes for a smoother ride).

  People with whom I have spoken have voiced their disdain for the fixed-gear bicyclist – they claim he has retreated too far into the bicycle's past. They deride him for seeming to have abandoned needlessly the improvements made to Baron von Drais' original design. Perhaps, however, the smog-riding bike messenger he has not retreated far enough.

  Long live the vondrais!

Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

on Waring Ave., Los Angeles CA

if you love to cycle, with vigor, rage, and daring, then don't be a psycho - head south and mash Waring

Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

encylopediamericanifesto entry - phaltweary II

   Persons suffering from phaltweariness tend to make calls, whoops, war-whoops, cat-calls, hoots, whistles, hollers, brays, and shouts loudly and often. Making loud noises with the speaking organ saves lives – absent a car's horn, uttering a piercing blast of blood-curdling gibberish is a proper way for a cyclist to signal to a nearby motor-vehicle operator that he is about to be cut off mercilessly. As to the general appearance of a peedubser (phaltweariness sufferer):

  His sun-dazzled eyes will dance with a light of their own, especially at night; his phaltburnt lips will be cracked and fissured; his dry tongue will grate across the roof of his mouth; and from his throat will issue forth a cry so foul, so loathsome, as to make the even the most wicked human among us tremble with abject loathing.

  The peedubzer will sound a signature call regardless of audience, circumstance, or location – although she war-whoops to signal lane changes and close calls alike, by yelling she loosens briefly the fetters upon her soul, her vitality radiant and pure, with every joyous breath celebrating life's fleeting tumble.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est – 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

encyclopediamericanifesto entry - phaltweariness

  Phaltweariness is a state of fatigue caused by bicycling for many kilometers on sun-baked city streets. The phaltweary person is known to go to bed easily, to sleep well through the night, and to exhibit a healthy and flexible physique. People suffering from PW (the peedubs, the phaltweariness) will experience aching muscles, 1000 yard stares, and prolonged periods of wild-eyed, fundamental indifference.

  While any avid bicyclist will occasionally encounter PW, phaltweariness affects the street art vagabond in particular, that isolated individual who prowls the Earth's cities on foot or on bicycle taking pictures of street art and uploading those pictures to the available data networks. Although the forces of homogeneity and societal control look upon him with blatant mistrust, the street art vagabond labors to perpetuate and to preserve for posterity as digital photographs the beautiful diversity of posters, stickers, paintings, and other graffiti that constitute the global Street Art movement.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est – 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp