"Those familiar with the novels and plays of Samuel Beckett need not be reminded of the rich clowning he engenders by means of the bicycle. It is for him the prime symbol of the Cartesian mind in it's acrobatic relation of mind and body in precarious imbalance. This plight goes with a lineal progression that mimics the very form of purposeful and resourceful independence of action".
Single Speed Nightmare Machine:
Round and round, so the cycle begins-to chop: the act of mangling, destroying, or to remake, rebuild, deconstruct, and otherwise to completely fuck up a perfectly good bike. To feed a weird hunger for fresh metal. The act of cutting up a frame, by demented be-boppin' bikelords and clownkings of the pavement, wringing inspiration from beer and acetylene, curbstomping the sacred geometry of the bike and attendant genteel manners thereof...
Joyfully weird lil urban outlaws improvising baroque fusions and conglomerations of unidentifiable whatchacallits out of thin air, rust, and the junkpile. A strange ravenous hunger to create, a need to ignore laws of physical nature, to punk up the fun quotient. Yeah, you start to feel it wiggling it's way into yer neo-cortex, don't you? An urge, a longing, mad desire, a way to shirk off drudgery of urban dystopia, by indulging in one's own dystopic utopia-or should I say dyutopia (forgive my Joycean slang)? One must burn, pheonix smash and fix this mutant out of the promethean primeval fiery gut of creation a monstrous metal beast of dubious means. Wrapped in an embrace of burning paint and welding fumes, you begin to feel it, that need, that heavy metal addiction that massages your gentle psyche with a big ass wrench.
You have become enslaved to the grinding metal scream of freakbike manna, of building an endless dream of rebellious weirdness from a simple machine.
You've become a choppaholic.
to be announced
explorations in writing
- Chopper Night In Canada-Element 1st.