Yesterday we talked a bit about the possibility of consciousness in inanimate objects. As usual, I took the side of the inanimates and damn if I didn't, once again, hang myself off a steep cliff with barely a toehold and a fragile rootlet to keep from plunging. Everybody knows that machines are just machines, rocks are just rocks and don't got no brains unlike most Hummins. We didn't bring up the subject of plants, as it is fairly well established that they know a lot more than we give 'em credit for. Somewhere in my brain there resides a file where I have stashed data on the subject, but my retrieval process was compromised yesterday and though I had considerable proof for doubt on the paradigm, I just couldn't argue effectively.
Today, the problem of retrieval persists and the usual cure (caffeine) is not working. I might have had a global erasure of the file, which is frightening as it represents years of squirreling-away useless information. So now I need to start over. My first bit of data will be the subjective notion that my bike is smarter than I am, based on a incident that happened Wednesday night.
It was Open-No-Mike and absolutely wonderful. My alcohol consumption plan allows for nearly unlimited drinking on Wednesday so I ended the evening with a thorough saturation of my body with wine. All that to say I got drunk, hum. Obviously the word stupify is appropriate.
Riding my bike home at One AM on a wet street, I did fine until I tried to negotiate the first corner. I am not sure what happened, but I went down. Now here is the meat of the matter. My bike was smart enough to land on top of me, unhurt, unlike Mr. Stupid. Some naysayers would argue that one occurrence does not prove a trend. I have to agree.
It happened twice. I got back on and sure enough, crashed again and once again my bike deftly hopped on top, actually pinning me to the wet street; as if to indicate that I should stay grounded.
Looking at my bike the next morning, I noted no damage. I on the other hand, suffered several injuries. I rest my case.
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About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
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