the safety of objects

I am, for the most part, not an accumulator of things. Emotional junk is hassle enough, why burden myself with physical clutter as well? Ha ha. This, however, does not blind me from the observation that we are defined - above all - by the things we "own". I am an unapologetic fan of generalisations and I do not consider this a particularly far-fetched one. It might be a tad over-dramatic and historically inaccurate to describe this as a symptom of the time and place we inhabit; but it's catchy so I'll go with it.

Yes we, myself and anyone reading - you and I may have never met but I know that you have, at minimum:
a) an internet connection;
b) had enough education as to be literate; and
c) the leisure of sneaking a peek into a fellow being's jumbled inner workings.

Few would disagree that for the term to continue any meaningful existence "possessions" must now encompass far more than the locality of one's residence, the logo on one's automobile, the contents of one's various storage areas (wardrobe, fridge, display cabinet, photo albums, investment portfolio, ...) - though these form an integral part. There's also pedigree, degree/s, the theoretical value placed on one's "earning capacity", the no less hypothetical value of one's "contacts" (to be distinguished from family and friends whose company - the incorporeal rather than the incorporated sort - promises no discernible financial gain), the wow-factor of one's pastimes ... Even experience, that most coveted of all human treasures, is so entwined with, so dependent upon, the depth and breadth of one's means - that how anyone could have the cheek of elevating themselves above earthly entanglements (not having a go at Buddhism here), is quite beyond me.

I was once asked to list some things-I-can't-live-without. Actually more than once, but all the other times were via mass chain mail superficial impersonal questionnaires which I of course refused to dignify with a response - so those don't count. My one face-to-face interrogator and I came to easy agreement that there's really not awful lot we need to stay alive. But what things make my life mine and hence worth living? Argh I feel a list-making fit coming on. Explanation may or may not follow subject to necessity and demand.

(In alphabetical i.e. no order)

• bedroom (bed non-essential)
• bike + accessories (incl. and esp. portable music player and raincoat) + scenery
• books
• car + driver's licence
• education (for what it's worth)
• footwear
• job
• guitar + sheet music
• internet connection
• kitchen + kitchenware
• laptop
• money (to be exact: more money than I need)
• N's playthings
• passport
• portable music player
• TV + DVD + VCR + cushioned seating
• work clothes

Dare I say that the removal of any (or all) of the above will not result in my annihilation, immediate or gradual. Yet I should enjoy much less, a life without all (or any) of them. I am willing to entertain the possibility of a no less agreeable lifestyle in which many (or most) of the items from the list do not feature - heck, even one led by myself at some future date - but these do just fine for now.

dyke on bike

Ha just a(nother) cheap stunt to grab your attention. (Gotcha didn't I?) This post will completely fail to address one half the topic and then only the purely foot-powered subset of the other.

Yesterday I bought my third bicycle. It cost $30 (more, with indexation) less than its immediate predecessor, which has been with me for about as long as N has (that I cannot recall whether it pre-dates N says much about its antiquity); and less still, than my first (factoring in exchange rates, inflation, etc.) with which I had parted all so prematurely and reluctantly. Whether my purchasing pattern indicates a rise in living standards of the general population (being, in theory at least, inversely proportional to the so-called "cost of living") or a drop in those of my own - your guess is as a good as mine.

I am not someone who forms emotional attachments to inanimate objects (or at all) readily. Yet I suspect that I "hold on to" things - we're not talking collectibles here but ordinary fungible goods - for longer than most. Such behaviour has so little to do with sentimentality and so much with my loathing of commitment, of being inconvenienced by the necessary upkeep of possessions of escalating delicacy, that I am surprised whenever people interpret it otherwise (which, to be fair, few do, if they've ever glimpsed the state of disrepair and general neglect which sooner or later befalls most if not all of my physical belongings).

Thus, albeit by default, Bike2 has carried me through the better part of my teenage years and early twenties, over the dips and bumps, and into no less uncertain times. Once its successor is fully assembled and operational, it will be shoved (gently yet surely) into a corner of the shed where it will remain until a better use for said corner arises, after which point it is at once harsh and pointless to speculate on its fate. But - whenever I recall those awesome lonesome hours of getting to know new neighbourhoods, to know myself, of being one and at one with the world - there it will be, like a brilliant supporting character who almost but not quite steals the show (thereby fulfilling its role to perfection), to be remembered fondly, without excessive analysis.